


Red

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gender Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sexual Content, Trans Male Character, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows his brother could run, and Red has always been best at hitting where it hurt, inside and out.<br/>This time, Red decides to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Heat is Honest

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wandered into fanfic about two and a half weeks ago, and then all of a sudden I had almost 70 000 words in five days. Apparently this is something I don't do in half measures.  
> The work is complete, and I'll upload chapters (of admittedly wildly varying lengths) every day. Or more, depending on whim.  
> Also--much later in the story will be frank description of trans bodies. Not your thing, perhaps best to hit that back button.  
> More notes at the bottom.

Red wakes.

            The alarm goes off beside him. _Ring. Ring. Ring._ An obnoxious noise, an impossible to ignore noise. He lays on his back and does nothing for a moment. He gazes at the ceiling through the wall of his hair.

            The heat makes him move.

            Rolling to his side, he pushes the off button down firmly with his middle finger. The noise stops. He falls onto his back, having to use both hands to push his hair from his face. There is so much of it. Always so much.

            He turns his head, looking out the window. The view would leave most people breathless. The water fall cascades down the cliff side. Morning mists hang beneath a golden sunrise. Everything green and lush and near bursting with life.

            He’s seen it.

            Red pushes himself into a seated position. For a long moment, he simply sits. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It’s always warm here. The building is air conditioned, but he’s turned it off in his room. He’s unsure why he’s done it. The higher the sun rises, the denser the heat will be in his room, the worse the discomfort.

            _Of course. You have no idea why you do it_.

            He pushes the sheets aside and stands, lifting his hair off his neck, pulling it over his shoulder. Padding across the bedroom, he slips inside the bathroom, and even though he’s locked the door to his quarters, he locks the bathroom door as well. He hasn’t bothered to turn on the light. He never does.

            Leaning into the shower, he turns on the water, making it cool, but not cold. He steps away, then shucks his clothes quickly. He sleeps only in a tank top and boxers. Leaving them on the ground, he steps beneath the water.

            He shivers a moment. Then he bends into the spray, embracing the cool antidote to this place he’s in. He lets the water soak his hair, lets it pour down his body, washing away the night. Maybe even a hint of the unhappiness as well.

            He knows he should be grateful. They made do with so little for so long.

            _Only he’s not here to appreciate it._

            It’s not a record. There are mornings when his brother is the very first thing he thinks of. He’s made it a whole four minutes before he mourns.

            It’s a familiar ache, though. He is able to shampoo his hair, to quickly soap his body without thinking about what he feels, and not let the memories be all there is. He goes through the motions.

            When he gets out of the shower, Red finds the towel, and dries. The hair takes the longest if he does it the hard way, which would be the dryer. Instead, he hangs upside down and puts his hands to the sides of his head. With a thought, he sends a fast flowing current of air rushing through his hair. If he opened his eyes, he would see a red glow begin to illuminate the room.

            He hears his brother’s voice. _Isn’t that what the doctor called a trivial misuse of power_? He can see his brother’s face grinning as he said it, and how he disappeared and was back on the couch a second later with a bag full of peanuts.

            Red stands, throwing back his hair. He hangs up the towel, and grabs his things off the floor, then goes back to the bedroom. He puts his pajamas, folded, in a hamper by the bed. There are people whose job it is to clean things around here—the floors, the clothes, whatever needs cleaning—but he does not like to let them in. He knows the others think it a little strange, but he’s sure Steve has said something to them. Besides—is a one of them without their quirks?

            He gets dressed. The heat here—the fucking relentless heat. So he chooses a short, flimsy black skirt, and an equally thin black tank top. He puts them on, and frowns, adjusting the bra. Already, he feels the sweat returning beneath these things he carries on his chest. It collects in the creases almost as soon as he’s dried there. A futile exercise.

            He puts a long, hanging red vest overtop of things, and then he opens the box on the dresser. One by one, he puts on his rings. There are seven in total. Three belonged to his Mama. When they’re all on, Red curls his fingers.

            For no reason, he turns his hands upside down. Fingers cocked, he sends red strings of energy up into the air. Glancing at the window, he thinks, _I could destroy that. I could destroy all of this_.

            He drops his hands, and walks back to the bathroom. This time he smacks the light switch, and goes to the mirror.

            This is the only time in the day that he will look in a mirror, the only time he will turn on the lights in this room. He picks up the eyeliner. It is the only makeup he wears. Leaning close to the reflective surface, he traces around his eyes with black. That done, he smudges it in. He tosses the pencil aside, and then steps back, taking stock of his presentation for the day.

            It is a very good approximation of a person.

            And then he hears his brother, calling him by his own name: _Pietro, what are you going to do with yourself_?

            Red sees himself wince, sees his own pain.

            There is a knock, and he startles, heart leaping into his throat. He looks to the bedroom door as Steve says, “Wanda, you up? Oh eight thirty. Got a meeting.”

            _Pietro. What are you going to do with yourself?_

            He stares at the door, and it is in that moment he realizes what he’s going to do. Enough.

            Steve says, raising his voice a little. “Wanda? Are you up?”

            Red finds his voice. “I will meet you there,” he says in his heavily accented English.

            “Everything okay?”

            He looks at himself, at decades worth of lies, and says calmly, “Everything is fine.”

 

It is only here, after months and months of training and action and constant activity that he is allowed to remember. The second they put him in that straitjacket and pumped him full of sedatives back in the prison, he had time to really think for the first time since it happened.

            They did not let him sleep at first. He would start to drift, and a hand would slam against a table, and up his head would go once more. There was nothing he could do. The drugs made it impossible to find his power. For the first time since he volunteered for the experiment, he had nothing to hold onto. No front to keep up, no pretense at normality, or all of them striving towards a common goal.

            He fell apart quickly, though he showed no one.

            The second night without sleep, he looked up and Pietro was sitting beside him. Wearing that track jacket that made him look common. They were common, but Pietro took a bizarre kind of pride in that.

            “How did you get yourself into this mess, Pietro?” he asked.

            Red gazed at him with raw, red eyes. “How do I get myself out?”

            His brother shrugged. “You will think of something. You always did.” He smirked. “Because you are bossy.”

            “Are you a spirit? Or am I insane?”

            “Why would I be a spirit, Pietro?”

            “Don’t call me that,” Red whispered.

            His eyes held Red’s. “Why would I be a spirit, Pietro?”

            Mouth held open, Red found himself saying the words he had pushed down for a year. “Because I killed you,” he whispered.

            He whimpered as Pietro put a hand to his face. “No. He killed me.”

            “I…I helped make him. All those people…oh God. All those people….” Red’s eyes welled up. “Our home. I was trying to….”

            “We were trying to, Pietro.”

            “Don’t call me that. I beg you. Do not call me by your name.”

            His shut his eyes tight, tears spilling down his cheeks as his brother leaned closer. Red could swear he felt breath on his cheek. “It is our name. You are me. I am you. Two halves of one whole.”

            “Then half of me is dead.”

            When Red opened his eyes, he was alone in the glass cell. Of course he was. He laid his head down on the table, and wept bitterly. The next day, the guards asked who he was talking to, but Red told them nothing. After the third night, they let him sleep.

            He did not see Pietro again, but the dam had burst. He had spent a long year ignoring the loss of his brother. Ignoring the loss of his other self. But now, here, in this warm place that was supposed to be a safe haven…what else was there to do but remember?

            All that he could do was catalogue his sins. In this sleek, strange place. The compound in America had been similar, but somehow, remarkably, it had become almost home. Foes became allies. He had made himself a part of a team. He had made friends.

            No. He had made the one friend.

            In America he had finally begun to struggle with all that he had done. Eleven lives. Eleven lives lost because he made a mistake. Maybe he could have lived with that. Eventually. But then things went so wrong. So terribly wrong, as they always did. He’d had to pick sides.

            As if there were only ever two sides.

            He had done what was wanted of him. He had come when called. Fought when told to, as though it were nothing. As though these weren’t the people whom he had made his home with. They were all he had after the life he lost. Now he was helping to tear them all apart. And wasn’t it silly, how that hurt him now, when it had once been his primary mission.

            God, he could have _killed_ Natasha. He could have killed all of them, but he remembered her most of all, the dull _thunk_ as her head struck the trailer. Red just let out a pithy one liner afterwards, but later, in the straitjacket, when he thought about it—a flick of the hands, and he could have ended someone’s life.

            Like the eleven in Lagos. Like the God knows how many in Sokovia.

            Like the one brilliant man with his cocky smile and terrible hair.

            He had felt the bullets. He had felt each and every one.

            Now he is here. In this hot place, and he is supposed to be fine. He’s supposed to carry on, because that’s the mission. These men he is surrounded by, they have missions, they have allegiances and moral codes.

            Meanwhile, Red carries the weight of all the dead, and says nothing.

 

He sits at the table, legs crossed. Even the air conditioning makes this place only barely acceptable. Red spent his entire life until this past year in Sokovia. He is used to winters of snow and ice that locks up your windows, and fair summers. He understands this place is beautiful, but it is showy in its beauty. You don’t have to search for the good.

            It is not home. Neither was the compound. That was an illusion.

            His eyes roam the room without letting his ears take in any of what’s being said. Yes, he understands it’s an important meeting. They are supposed to continue on, even as outlaws. The way Steve talks, he clearly thinks he is still in charge. That there is something to be in charge of.

            Red got his wish. The one he and Pietro worked for so long, the one they were willing to sacrifice their bodies and their sanity for. The Avengers are destroyed. Only Steve doesn’t appear to have gotten the message.

            He’s identified an arms dealer in Kinshasa that they’re going to—what? Arrest? Bring to justice? Who would they take him to? They’re vigilantes. Do they just kill the man? Then what are they?

_You no longer have a shield to hide behind_ , Red wants to say to him. _You are not Captain America. There are no more wars to be won. We lost_.

            Sam is no help. He would follow Steve into certain death. They are soldiers. They’ve bucked the system as hard as they’re able, but still—one must give orders, and one must follow. They fell into this hierarchy so easy that Red wonders how they can’t marvel at it.

            Red does not think much of the others who are gathered. He misses Clint, but he understands how desperate he was to get home to his family. Where are they now, he does not know. He hopes no one knows.

            _You didn’t see that coming_.

            He hears it at the corner of his mind, any time his thoughts wander to Clint. It was the last words he heard before his other half went dark. He went dark and he exploded and God, now Steve’s spoken to him and he has no idea what was said.

            “Sorry,” he says, “what was that?”

            Steve gives Red a probing look, but he can take it. He’s cultivated a thousand yard stare over the years rivalled only by that one armed monstrosity who’s currently frozen upstairs.

            Steve goes over Red’s responsibilities, and Red listens. All right—half listens. He wants to take Steve by the arms and shake him. Steve is literally twice his size, but Red is a lot stronger than he looks. He could shake the daylights out of Steve if he really put his mind to it. _Look around,_ he wants to yell. _Do these people not seem like they have their house in order? And who are you? Another white man convinced he’s going to save Africa?_

            The Wakandans seemed more than capable of taking care of themselves. Who was to say the rest of the continent could not do the same? The rest of the world?

            For not the first time, Red thinks, _I made a terrible, terrible mistake_.

            _Add it to the pile, Pietro_.

            He nods at the end of Steve’s speech. “Very well. I will be ready.”

            “Will you?” Steve asks.

            Red holds his eyes. “Yes.”

           

Sam catches up with him after the briefing. “Hey.”

            “Hey,” Red says quietly. He feels the cool air on his legs for a moment, and is pleased. Then he glances towards the window, sees the high sun, and frowns.

            “You going for lunch?”

            “I’m not very hungry.”

            “Yeah. Or how about we talk?”

            “And why is this?”

            Shrugging his broad shoulders, Sam says, “Lotta big changes over the past couple months. Want to make sure everybody’s handling it all right.”

            When Red first moved into the Avengers compound, they made him go once a week to a doctor who wanted to talk about his feelings. The whole thing seemed ludicrous. Yes: he was sad that his brother had died. Yes: he was sad that his parents had died. Yes: it was strange to come to a new country to work with the people he had spent years planning on killing. These were obvious questions, but the doctor wanted more, always more, and the third week, Red slipped his hands behind the woman’s head and gave a suggestion. Red was cleared to continue without counselling. Steve had given him a talking to, but Red reasoned that he was there to work, not discuss his feelings. “Do _you_ discuss your feelings?” he challenged Steve.

            “So now that we aren’t proper Avengers, you are the doctor now,” Red said.

            “No,” Sam said patiently. “I just have some experience. People who’ve been in tough situations. Combat. People aren’t telling the truth if they tell you they’re not affected by it. Or they’re stone cold killers. Somehow, you never struck me as a stone cold killer, Wanda.”

            The name makes his skin crawl. _A flick of my wrist and you go through a wall_.

            “I am fine. Where is Steve?” If Red can get Sam off his back a little, maybe he can have some space to breathe. To actually think. No better way than to pretend to go to the big man himself.

            Sam lets out a soft snort. “Where do you think? Encino Man.”

            Red doesn’t know what the second part means, but he understands the first. “I have to speak to him. I will see you later. For practice.”

            He turns down the hallway, and Sam says, “Hey.” Red looks back. Hands in his pockets, Sam asks, “You miss him?”

            His stomach drops. “Who?”

            Sam taps his forehead.

            There’s a new ache there. One that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

            Sam sees something in his face, because his expression briefly flickers to one of remorse. “Know what? Forget I said anything. See you later, Wanda.”

            Red turns away. He feels his hands vibrating, and he knows his eyes have gone scarlet.

            No, not scarlet. Red.

            He cannot stand the other word.

 

For whatever reason, Red finds himself actually going upstairs. He walks down the hall until he finds the place that no one is supposed to really know about. Only everyone does.

            Steve is sitting on a table, gazing forlornly at the big rectangular tube. The little window on it has been covered over. Red came by once, and Steve was here, and was looking into the frosted pane. It creeped him out, and as someone who could drive a person mad with only a thought, that was saying something.

            _You need to stop coming here_ , Red wanted to tell Steve. On the list of a dozen things he wanted to tell Steve, that definitely ranked in the top three. Steve Rogers was supposed to be a good man, the paragon of a good man. In his own way, Red supposed he still was. But he had made so many compromises. Unnecessary, stupid compromises, and all for that thing in the box.

            He would not say it to Steve though. Most people, Red had to dig, at least a little, before he found what was most important to them, what truly frightened them. Steve, however, had practically pasted what he wanted on his forehead. Sam had bragged about some blond policewoman or something who Steve was supposed to be madly in love with, as if it was his own accomplishment. Red had looked a few times, and had never seen a blonde woman in Steve’s mind.

            No. All he saw was the Winter Soldier, and sometimes a man who looked like him, but friendlier. The Winter Soldier wore that dead man’s face, only Steve didn’t seem to realize the difference between the two.

            Red keeps his opinions to himself as he approaches Steve. You see a lot of things other people weren’t comfortable talking about when you could tiptoe through the contents of their brain.

            Steve gives Red a smile, and Red pushes himself up onto the table. Even with his toes pointed downwards, they still hang several inches above the floor. Glancing at Steve’s long legs, he notices with envy how he can not only touch the floor but how he can lay his legs out, crossed at the ankles.

            Red never looks at Steve and thinks, _you were what I was supposed to be._ No. He was simply—too much. He would want Pietro’s size at most. That was what he would be comfortable in. He had spent so many years looking through his brother’s eyes.

            “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

            “I have not slept well since we came here,” Red says, and this is at least true. He balls his hands together in the lap of his skirt. “The sun is…not what I am used to.” Steve glances at him, and Red explains, “Kamaj. The mountains kept the sun being on the city all the time. There is more sun here.”

            He can see the second it takes Steve’s memory to jog, and though this man has been good to him, Red cannot help but hate him a little. When everyone talks about what happened with Ultron, they refer to the whole incident as Sokovia. But Sokovia is a country. Kamaj was the city Red helped ruin. The city of his birth, the city of his childhood, the place that would always be home.

            When the Avengers would talk about what happened with Loki, they never called it ‘America.’ No. America was a country to them, filled with cities, all with their own names. What was Sokovia? How many times had Red heard it dismissively called, ‘Nowhere special on the way to everywhere special’?

            Kamaj. Kamaj was where thousands had perished. And for a moment, Steve perfect Rogers had forgotten its name.

            “You know,” Steve says, “I was in the ice for plenty of years, but one fairly simple piece of technology managed to survive.” He looks at Red. “Curtains.”

            Red gives a nod.

            Steve threads his fingers together. “Wanda…I know of all of us…you’ve had about the roughest go of it. I appreciate that. You know I do.”

            “But stop moping and do my job. Yes. I will do this.”

            “I wasn’t going to put it exactly like that. Is there anything I can do? Anything you want to tell me?”

            _I want to tell you that we were wrong. I want to tell you that I no longer believe in what you’re doing. I want to tell you that I don’t know what to do or where to go or what I’m supposed to do with my life._

_I want you to stop fucking calling me Wanda._

“You miss the others?” Steve prompts gently.

            That catches Red a little off guard. “Yes,” he admits. “I miss the others.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I even miss Stark.”

            “Tony?” Steve says in disbelief. “ _You_ —miss Tony?”

            Red can hear the teasing in his voice, and he smiles a little to act as if it was a joke. But God—he can’t believe he actually misses Tony Stark.

            Stark’s weapons had killed his parents. He had kept Red practically a prisoner in his own home at the end.

            Only…Stark had catalogued his sins. Now that Red was in the process of doing the same did he begin to see how it had happened. Tony Stark had been a terrible person, yes. He had helped kill thousands. Then he realized what he’d done, and the guilt rolled off him in waves. He had tried, tried over and over again to make the world a better place. To atone. Red had taken advantage of that in his quest for revenge. And what had happened?

            He ended up in the same place that Tony had begun.

            Irony. What a cruel bitch of a mistress.

            Somehow, he thought—if he could sit down with Tony, maybe the man would understand.

            Steve, though—Steve had started out doing what was right for the world, and as the years went on, he seemed more intent on doing whatever _he_ deemed right. As if he were infallible.

            One thing Red could have told him was that none of them were.

            Changing the topic, Red says, “Does it make you happy to come here?”

            “Happy?” Steve says, as if surprised. He shrugs those broad shoulders. “I don’t know if it makes me happy. I just…like to check in.”

            Red can see the hope hovering around Steve. It makes him so weak. Susceptible.

            _It’s his family. Leave him be_.

            “Does he dream?” Steve asks. Red looks at him, and Steve says, slightly uncomfortable, “Can you tell if he’s….”

            Red pretends to look. He lets his eyes go red, like he’s reaching out. He’s not. He looked inside the Winter Soldier once, and what he saw left him a wreck.

            “He is just…quiet,” Red lies. Or for all he knows, that could be the truth.

            _Or he could be dreaming of the children he’s killed with his bare hands_.

            His answer makes Steve smile a little, and Red realizes this may be one of the last good times. Steve Rogers is handsome when he smiles, and sad. Red slips off the table, ready to leave him be.

            “You’re good for tomorrow?” Steve asks.

            He gives Steve the best smile he has. “I am good.”

            He can tell he has convinced Steve. Red walks away, the smile disappearing from his face the moment his back turns.

 

Red eats a small dinner by himself. He goes to the kitchen and asks for food. He understand that his large eyes would endear him to the staff if he made the effort, but Red has not had the energy for anything remotely approaching effort. They look disgruntled when he shows up, and quickly give him whatever they have on hand. It is not the carefully plated fare that ends up in the dining room.

            T’Challa has only spoken to him once since he’s been here. Red is glad for that. He has no idea how to talk to a king. He was embarrassed when the king brought up how he frequented the kitchen instead of the dining hall. Fearing he’d insulted the man—it was one thing to insult a man, another to insult a king, another to insult one who dressed like a cat in a suit of vibranuim—Red had just said uncomfortably, “I do not mean to offend you, your majesty. I’m not used to the customs here.”

            The king had looked at him, and gave a polite smile. “If your customs make you happy, Miss Maximoff, then they make all of us happy.” He continued on, and Red had barely crossed his path since. He didn’t flatter himself thinking that it was because he was avoiding the king—that man simply had a million things more important to concern himself with.

            He sits now on his bed, picking at a bowl of something. Sometimes the food here is so spicy that he finds himself gasping into his hand, turning bright red from the roots of his hair all the way down to his chest. Today it is brown, and thick. It looks appetizing. He knows that.

            But after all these years, he finds he misses the simplicity of oatmeal. Or boiled vegetables.

            Or radishes.

            He smiles crookedly at that. His brother would laugh at him, if he said he missed radishes.

            _I miss the familiar_ , Red would have told him.

            He pokes his spoon at the bowl, skirt hiked all the way up his thighs. It isn’t like living on the compound, where he’d kept a modicum of decorum at all times. Particularly after that first time, when he was just in his boxers and bra, and he looked up to find he was not alone.

            Red finds himself looking at the wall. The flat, undecorated plane. Unremarkable. Exactly the kind of place he would suddenly walk through. Red would yelp, then remind him, and he’d be so apologetic, and still perplexed. Still so new.

            He gazes at the wall, and for a moment, he wishes with all his heart that a tall man with red and silver skin would just… _appear_.

            He doesn’t, of course, and Red drops his head. He feels foolish, and young. And not hungry.

            Pushing the bowl away, he gets to his feet. He walks to the bathroom, and then after a pause turns on the light. He locks the door, and then goes to study himself in the mirror.

            Big eyes. Long hair. High cheekbones. He is pretty. People look at him, and they see a pretty girl. They have always seen a pretty girl.

            He can no longer bear it.

            _What are you going to do, Pietro?_

“Something,” Red says, and means it.

 

The aircraft rocks a little with turbulence. Red feels his stomach turn, and he wishes he had not eaten, but he knows it was a necessity. He had a big breakfast and a snack before they left.

            “Damn,” Sam said as Red pushed the food into his mouth, “I wasn’t even sure you ate.”

            “Big day,” Red said around a mouthful.

            He closes his eyes as the plane bobs slightly. He calls it a plane, but he’s not sure if that’s what it is. A jet? There’s room for the three of them in the back, and the pilot up front, but that’s all. He is strapped in against the wall, facing Steve and Sam. Red holds the straps over his shoulders.

            There is air conditioning. Always air conditioning. It feels false. Every breath recycled. The heat will be honest. He will hate it, but it will be honest.

            When Red opens his eyes again, he sees Steve and Sam glancing at each other meaningfully. The question between them almost hangs in the air. _Is she okay_?

            _He’s fine_ , Red thinks.

            “Perhaps I should not have eaten so much,” Red says with a weak smile, and they both smile back, a little relieved. Even now, they are too trusting.

            He is sorry for that.

            “You okay?” Steve asks.

            Always that question. Over and over. It has been asked and answered so many times that it has no meaning. It’s been asked to the point that Steve has to know _something_ is wrong. But he wants to believe. Believe that he is in control, that he has the situation in hand.

            Steve Rogers. Who doesn’t want to be told what he can and can’t do, but still has to be in charge. He doesn’t realize he’s a hypocrite. He has been good to Red, and his eyes are kind even now, but Red knows that you can’t force people to know themselves. They have to learn who they truly are on their own.      

            Red nods. “How long until we land?”

            Steve looks towards the pilot. “Mags? How close are we?”

            “ETA five minutes, Cap.”

            Steve raises a brow at Red, and he nods again. They are probably flying over the city now. There are no windows for him to look out of, not in the back. Red is glad for that. They’ve all looked at the map, memorized that. Red lay in bed with it last night, making sure he knew exactly where he was supposed to go. He’s not ready to look at the city yet. He needs a few more minutes.

            Sam straps his goggles on, but he props the eye pieces on his forehead. Red watches him wobble a bit from side to side with the movement of the aircraft. They look completely at ease, the two of them. Just another mission.

            _We have nothing in common. Except that we’re freaks. And all of us volunteered for it._

            Red smells of sunscreen. He rubbed it all over himself before leaving Wakanda. The first time they went out together—when they were a real team—to a hot bright place, he had burned terribly. It had not occurred to him that it was a thing that needed to be done. Kamaj was settled in the mountains, and most of the days were grey. Red was used to danger— _nowhere special on the way to everywhere special_ —but this new thing was so small and insidious (the sun will give you _cancer_ ) that he had come home that night, skin bright and peeling and in terrible pain, and he had just laughed and laughed.

            He’d laughed because he had a strange sense of humor. And because he knew Pietro would have laughed at him too.

            He pulls the tube out of his bag, hears Sam’s little chuckle, and murmurs, “Yes, yes.” He is about to squirt the lotion onto his palm when he pauses. Putting the tube in his lap, he pulls an elastic from his bag. Gathering all of his hair in his hands, he twists it together, then wraps the elastic around it, making a bun. Then he takes the sunscreen, and rubs it over the back of his neck, over his ears. He makes sure it is a thick layer, then puts the tube back into his bag. He takes a little black backpack with him on their trips. Stark once made a snide comment about women and purses, and unseen, Red had slipped a nightmare into him that left him pale for the next three days. After a lifetime of being told he is one thing and knowing he is another, he still must admit that the lie gives him some advantages. It’s not like Steve can carry much in that dark, close outfit he wears now.

            Red leans back, wiping the rest of the lotion onto the back of his hands, and Sam says, “You going out there like that?”

            He looks over, and sees that Sam’s gazing at him intently. “Yes. Why?”

            “You don’t usually wear your hair up.” Steve glances at Sam, then looks down at the floor, like he’s pretending he’s not in the room.

            Red shrugs. “It’s hot.”

            The look on Sam’s face is a little warm, a little self-satisfied. “Looks good.”

            Red has seen that look on his face before. Sam gives it to a lot of the women when he meets them at first. Once he knows a person, he’s less apt to do it. He’s never done it to Red before.

            _God, I must look pretty_ , Red thought, with some disgust. He ignores the compliment, and draws the string at the top of the bag tight, tying it into a knot.

            “Approaching target,” says the pilot.

            Red feels the aircraft lowering. His stomach does another flip. This time he is very sure not to let it show in his face.

            _I make my choices. I make my choices._ I _make my choices_.

            They are coming in on top of a building that has a helipad. This thing can hover, so Red supposes it’s not a plane. He doesn’t know what it is. It doesn’t matter, but he’s trying to keep himself distracted. He’s trying to stay calm.

            He hears Pietro’s voice, the first time they were let out of their cells, reaching for one another wide eyed. _Look at what I can do_ , Pietro breathed, and showed him how fast he could run. And Red had laughed, had smiled for his brother the smile that was only for him, only ever for him.

            The aircraft touches down on the roof. Steve and Sam are already unstrapping. Sam has to suit up. Steve goes to the door, punching in on the keypad, and the back of the aircraft unseals. There is a burst of heat. The air is not fresh. It is the air of a city where over eleven million people live.

            But it’s honest.

            Red unfastens. He lifts the straps, and they shoot back into the wall. Pushing himself to his feet, he stretches his arms over his head. Then he drops his arms.

            He’s wearing his red leather jacket over black jeans and a black t-shirt, and a tank top underneath. He has on all his rings, and the necklace his brother got him for his twentieth birthday tucked inside his shirts, nestled between the things on his chest. It is too much, and he is too warm. Already, he can feel the sweat beginning in his socks, inside his boots. Practical this time instead of pretty. No one has noticed.

            Sam is shrugging into his pack, going to where Steve stands at the doorway. Red looks at them, framed against the brightness of the sky, hazy from light and maybe pollution, he’s unsure about the latter. They’re already talking about where to start, going over the plan yet again. Obsessives. Soldiers without a nation. Red understood the compulsion. Only now he pities them.

            For a moment, he lets himself be sad. _We were never friends. But for a time, we were allies_.

            He hears the pilot behind him, pushing buttons. Eyes still on Steve and Sam, Red wraps an arm around his waist, keeping his hand hidden. Without looking, he sends red threads of thought through the air to the pilot.

            _Sleep_.

            For a second, Red feels as though time stops. He wonders if this is what it was like for Pietro. Everyone else moving in slow motion. He sees the moment where everything changes irrevocably for him once more.

            He feels the pilot slump, and there is the exact second where he sees Steve realize something has gone wrong. Of course it is Steve. The large man begins to turn, and Red sees him automatically reach for a shield that is not there.

            Red sends a blast of energy roaring through the close quarters of the aircraft, hitting Sam full on from behind. He is unconscious before he can even register the betrayal, flying forward and out onto the concrete of the roof, landing flat on his belly.

            Steve is coming for Red, but Red throws an arm down, grabbing the man with a swirl of energy, and flings him back against the wall, pinning him there. He pulls back his other hand, seeing nothing but red, feeling the ball of crackling fire gathering in his hand.

            “Wanda!” Steve yells. “Wanda, what are you doing?”

            There is the moment of hesitation. The memory of Steve sitting down on the side of his bed, comforting him when all he could think was that he was a monster. Steve had done that.

            Then Steve says, “Who talked you into this? Who are you working for?” and Red is so furious that no, he doesn’t see red, he sees _scarlet_.

            He remembers the first thing he ever heard Steve Rogers say about him. “We have a second enhanced. Female.” The very first thing.

            Steve Rogers has never understood him. Not from the first moment they laid eyes on each other.

            Just like that first moment the met, Red lets him have it. Only he doesn’t throw him down a flight of stairs. He pulls him a few feet from the wall and then hurls him against the ceiling so hard that for one perilous moment he is convinced that he has killed Captain America. The sound his head makes when it cracks against the wall is sickeningly familiar, and Red lets him go.

            He hits the floor in a heap.

            Red stands there a moment. He reaches out with his mind. Has he actually killed him?

            No. He hasn’t. Steve is knocked out, but alive.

            Red is glad and also not. The not part makes him lean over, and he sends Steve just a portion of what he’d seen in the Winter Soldier’s head. Even unconscious, Steve’s face contorts.

            “I make my _own_ choices,” Red says in a low voice.

            He tosses off his jacket, and grabs his bag, pulling it over his shoulders. Jogging down the short gangplank, he is hit hard by the sudden wave of the sun, hot and unencumbered. Red ignores it—he will have to be used to this—and goes to Sam. With a curl of his fingers and a push of the hand, he rips through all the machinery in Sam’s pack, tearing his precious new wings asunder. Red cups one hand, lifting the other, and Sam lifts off his feet. He drifts back into the aircraft as quickly as Red can send him.

            That done, Red stands at the back of the aircraft, and uses both hands to focus his power. He closes the door after them, then twists the metal so that the door will not open again. Red’s not stupid—he knows that they will just go through the window. He’s not trying to keep them confined. He’s trying to keep them safe from anyone who would come after them. It is a risk, but one he is willing to take. They will wake before anyone knows to come for them.

            Probably.

            Red turns and goes to the edge of the building. As far as he can see, there are buildings. The sound—this is a city with more people than his home country, and they make an alarming amount of noise. Below him, people are on the streets. There is no way to go down there unnoticed. Not the way he intends.

            Red looks south, and sees the ribbon of space beyond the buildings. The river.

            He climbs onto the ledge of the ten storey building, then steps off. He floats downwards. Red’s looking down to control his descent, so he sees the first face that finds him, the sudden shock. More and more faces turn up to him as he slowly falls, ripples of red surrounding his hands and feet. People pulling away, the cries of shock.

            “I cannot control their fear,” he’d told his one friend. “I can only control my own.”

            So he focuses only on reaching the ground, as people scramble away. Already, a few have taken out their phones. He’d be upset that his getaway wasn’t a clean one, but he thinks he just concussed Captain America. Nothing about this is clean.

            Red’s feet touch the ground, and for a moment, he stands. He is on his own, well and truly, for the first time in his entire life.

            _Yeah? So what are you going to do about it, Pietro?_

            He turns to the south.

            He runs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know--just what the MCU needs: another white male character. I promise, I'm ashamed.  
> So! Awesome people--I am really new to fanfic, and have some concerns about the legalities of what I've written, because in coming chapters, there will be scenes from Age of Ultron rewritten from Red's perspective. I mean, Joss Whedon could sue me for all my many nothings, but that would just be sad for us all. I've noticed that I haven't seen many (or any) scenes rewritten from the films, so I'm unsure if this is due to copyright concerns or if it's just uncommon to the field or something else. But it simply didn't make sense to me to not have these scenes without Red's take on them since they're such a huge part of his story, so they're in there, shaky legality and all.  
> What this means is that I am going to try and source anything I've taken directly from the movies and attribute it just so that all bases are covered. Meaning, my thanks to Joss Whedon for writing Avengers: Age of Ultron, which I've quoted briefly (I think twice) in this chapter, which apparently is cool to do in snippets. But upcoming chapters are going to be a little dicier. And of course, forever admiration for Jack Kirby and Stan Lee creating this sandbox that so many people play in.  
> Since we're at it, I also want to credit Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, who wrote Captain America: Civil War, which obviously is the set-up for this story. I'll only credit Mark Millar for writing the original comic if someone has me at gunpoint, though.  
> Let me know what you think of things so far, folks.  
> Update July 11 2016: I posted the first chapter of Red a little over a month ago and completed it a little over two and a half weeks ago, and somehow it's managed to be viewed 900+ times as of today. I just wanted to say thank you so much for your support and your time and your comments and your kudos and all of it. This story meant (and still means) so much to me, and I'm so happy that people are finding it. As always, I send you all the love in my black, shrunken heart.   
> -Sebastian


	2. The First Four Lives of Red Maximoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the following 12000+ words aren't clear enough, obviously I wasn't satisfied with the fifteen second speech Pietro gives in Age of Ultron that's really the only reference given to what's happened to the twins before HYDRA's experiments, or their motivation.  
> I'm absolutely an Age of Ultron apologist (all hail the Glow Cloud and Joss Whedon), but one thing that bugs the hell out of me is that the name Sokovia is used interchangeably as city or nation. Should I care this much about the semantics of a made up place? No, but it comes off as kind of sloppy and a little, I dunno, imperialist to not care enough to distinguish between the name of a city or the country it's in, just because it's not the States. So I went ahead and decided to call the city Kamaj, since all the information I could find online said that Sokovia was meant to be the name of the nation.  
> To those of you who are giving this first timer a shot, you're warming the cockles of this cynical nerd's heart.   
> Onwards.

He remembers it happening for the first time when they were four.

            Before that, they simply called each other Me. They did not look so different from one another then. They were long haired, wild children who spent their days playing out back of the apartment building in an unending game of make believe.

            “Me, I am the king!”

            “You were king yesterday!”

            “Then you’ll be king today and I’ll be king tomorrow.”

            And they had smiled at each other, and ran in circles.

            Red could not tell his memories from his brother’s before that day. They were one. Their grandmother said they were special, that they thought with one mind. They did everything together. Why would they not?

            Then came the separation, when their mother, in frustration at their antics in the house as she was struggling to make dinner for four out of food that should only feed one, yelled, “Enough!”

            The children had stopped, staring at her with wide eyes, even their blinks attuned.

            Mama stood there, with her hands to her face, thin fingers covered with rings. The children looked at one another. Me thought, _What is it?_ And Me thought, _I don’t know. But I don’t like it_.

            When Mama dropped her hands, she said, “Enough. Enough of this. You!” She pointed to the left. “You are Pietro.” She pointed to the right. “ _You_ are Wanda! Enough of—whatever this is. You are two people. You are a little boy and a little girl.”

            Me felt the horror, felt the split. Felt other Me’s reaction too—and realized there were two reactions happening.

            “I am not a girl!” Me said.

            “Of course you are a little girl,” Mama said in exasperation.

            “I am not!”

            “What else would you be?”

            “I’m a boy!”

            “Oh, for God’s sake—you are a little girl. You are Wanda Maximoff, and he is Pietro Maximoff, and I am your mama, and you will do as you’re told.”

            Me felt tears coming to his eyes, and he yelled, “I am not! I am _Me_!”

            “Enough!” Mama shouted.

            Me could not bear it. He ran. He ran from the apartment, even as his mother shouted after him. He ran down the stairs, only he fell. He tumbled and tumbled until he struck the wall.

            Laying on his side, he curled up and wept. He was alone.

            He felt his brother come before he heard him. “Me?” his brother said hesitantly. He could see himself through his brother’s eyes. His bare knees were bleeding, and so was his elbow. His brother sat down. “Me?”

            “I am me,” he sobbed, and for the first time, it meant himself. Not them.

            His brother was silent a moment, before saying with a lack of enthusiasm, “I’m Pietro.”

            His brother had a name. And he had a name too. Only it was the wrong name. It meant something that wasn’t true.

            “You’re Pietro too,” his brother said.

            Me opened his eyes. He looked at his brother. “Am I?”

            Pietro nodded. “You are me, and I am you. Your name’s wrong. We can share my name.”  

            “She said…she said I’m….”

            “She doesn’t know. You’re my brother.”

            Other Pietro pushed himself up, so that he was sitting. Everything hurt. “Yes.”

            His brother frowned. “You’re all…red.”

            He looked down at himself. “I’m bleeding.” He started to cry all over again. “It hurts.”

            His brother pushed himself behind Other Pietro and wrapped thin arms around him. Mama came and found them soon after, and she cried too, but she didn’t understand. She never did.

 

After that came the first of the bad days.

            Mama called Pietro upstairs, and when he came back down twenty minutes later, all his beautiful hair had been cut away. He was miserable. “She said I looked like a girl.”

            Other Pietro remembered what his brother had said to him the other week. “I will have the hair,” he said. “We can share it.”

            His brother smiled weakly. “Can I be king today?”

            “Can I be the prince?”

            “And tomorrow you’ll be the king and I’ll be the prince.”

            One morning when they woke up, Mama was waiting with new clothes for Other Pietro. “No more dressing in each other’s clothes,” she said with a tight little smile. “We’re poor, but we’re not that poor.”

            Only the clothes were flimsy, and frilly, and every single thing was a dress. Other Pietro just stared at them. “They’re girls’ clothes.”

            The look in Mama’s eyes told him that this was not the time to argue. “And you’re a girl.”

            _I’m not_ , Other Pietro thought, and he heard his brother answer, _I know you’re not._

            His hair would be braided in the morning, and he would have to wear uncomfortable black patent shoes with straps across them. His brother wore the sneakers that they used to swap back and forth.

            A year passed, and all the while, Pietro was still calling him by his name, referring to him as ‘he,’ calling him his brother. He was the only one who made sense in a world that seemed increasingly upsetting and strange.

            Then came the night at the table when Papa slammed down his hand. They both jumped. Papa was quiet. Their father was always quiet, and he was gone before they woke in the morning. He came home exhausted and silent. They’d never seen him angry before. Other Pietro didn’t even know why Papa seemed upset.

            “That is your sister,” Papa said in anger.

            Other Pietro realized that Pietro had called him by his name. Like always. He saw Pietro look between him and their father. Saw him trying to decide, knowing the repercussions.

            _Please_ , Other Pietro begged.

            Pietro took a breath, and looked at Papa. “He is my brother.”

            A breathless moment passed, and Papa was moving so quickly that Other Pietro didn’t understand what was happening at first. Pietro’s arm was in his hand, and Other Pietro leapt to his feet, but Mama was holding him back. Papa dragged Pietro to the bedroom, and the whole time, Pietro screamed over and over again, _he is my brother!_ The door slammed behind them, but Other Pietro felt every blow that fell.

            Pietro had to sleep on his stomach for the next three nights, and so did Other Pietro.

            “I feel it,” he said in the dark.

            His brother said, “I know you do.”

            “I don’t like it when you get hurt.”

            “I don’t like it either.”

            “Should…should I do what they tell me?”

            “No,” Pietro said. He paused. “Maybe I will not call you by our name in front of them.”

            It felt like a retreat, but a necessary one. “Okay.”

            “Brother?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I don’t…hear you. Like I used to.”

            A chill went all the way through Other Pietro. “I can still hear you.”

            “Okay,” Pietro said in relief. “Good. Do…you think I did something wrong? And that’s why I can’t hear you?”

            “No.” Other Pietro hugged his pillow. “I will hear for both of us. We will share.”

           

“Red.”

            Other Pietro looked up from the sheet of paper he was scribbling on. They were in class. They had been good—maybe for once—and the teacher was so pleased that she was letting them colour. Other Pietro could not remember the last time they’d coloured. Sometimes they didn’t even have paper to write their alphabets on, let alone to play with.

            He looked at the crayon in his fingers. It had been a well-worn inch when he got his hands on it. Fifteen minutes later it was almost down to the nub.

            Holding it up, a bit guilty, he asked, “Did you want it?”

            His brother was looking at him strangely, with a little smile. “Red is your favourite colour.”

            “I guess.” He realized something with a sinking stomach. “I don’t know your favourite colour.” He felt their increased separation more acutely in that moment.

            Pietro shook his head. “No, red is _your_ favourite colour. So I’ll call you Red.”

            “What?”

            “When we’re with other people. So they leave us alone. When you’re with me, you’re Pietro. When we’re with everybody else, you’re Red.” He started to look uncertain. “Do you not like that?”

            He thought about it, and smiled. “I like that.”

            Pietro smiled, relieved, and went back to drawing monsters. “You’re still my brother,” he said without looking up.

            Red went back to grinding the tiny piece of crayon into the sheet. “I still hear you.”

 

The separation continued as the years grew harder.

            Red would never forget the day they discovered Pietro could run faster than him. They had always played equally. All right, perhaps Pietro had a slight edge, but he was twelve minutes older, after all. That’s what Pietro reassured him, how Red reassured himself.

            Then one day they were running down the street, and Red realized that Pietro was moving away from him. He tried to force his body to keep up, but it failed. He watched in dismay as Pietro surpassed him. Stopping, Red watched as Pietro continued to run, unencumbered, not realizing he was now alone.

            Pietro discovered he was by himself about ten seconds after Red stopped. He turned, and looked back. Laughing, he called, “Why’d you stop, lazy?”

            “You’re faster than me,” Red said flatly.

            Pietro’s face fell. He didn’t try to argue with it. Red knew he wasn’t hiding his disappointment very well. Pietro pushed his hands in his pockets. He shrugged. “So. I’m faster. At least you can still hear me. I can’t hear you at all anymore.”

            “You can’t?”

            Pietro shook his head, looking angry at himself. He looked at Red, frowning. “Can we share?”

            Then the sirens went off.

            They both looked up, shocked, and then back at each other. “Home,” Pietro commanded, and Red did as he was told. Pietro had a hand on his arm, making sure they were not separated for a second.

            When they burst into the apartment, Mama grabbed them both up in her arms. “My babies,” she whispered, holding them close. “My babies, oh my God, my babies.” She was pushing them then, herding them swiftly into the bathroom. “Get in the tub, my darlings. Get in the tub.”

            “Mama—“ Red said.

            Mama kissed him hard on the forehead, and lifted him right into the bathtub. “Get down. Get down, I’ll be right back. Get down—Pietro, take care of your sister—“

            Pietro grabbed him tight in his arms. Red clung to his hands, and their legs intertwined.

            Mama came back, awkwardly carrying the mattress off of Pietro’s bed. Red could tell whose it was by the blue sheets. The sheets on his were what his Mama called pink, but he thought of them as light red.

            “Push over, my babies.” They made as much room for her as they could, and she pulled the mattress on top of the tub. It was dark and warm suddenly, everything muffled. Mama wrapped her arms around them both, Red pinned between the two of them. “You’re getting so big, my babies.” Red felt Mama kiss the top of his head. “Oh God,” Mama breathed.

            They said nothing for long time, all of them listening to the long, unending peal of the siren.

            Finally, Red was about to speak, to ask what was going on, only he felt the tremor.

            The arms tightened around him. He squeezed his eyes tight. There was a low _boom_ in the distance, and then everything shivered.

            Mama said, “Everything will be okay. We’re together. No matter what, we’re together.” Red buried his face against her chest as the sounds got louder, as the tremors became thuds and shakes.

            It went on for hours. Every time they thought it had finished, it would start again.

            Until it finally stopped. They got out of the tub, and Pietro tried to pretend like he wasn’t crying, but he was. Red was still too scared to cry. Papa burst through the door a half hour later, wide eyed, and then they had all cried, wrapped tight against each other, and there had been kisses, and that night they all slept in Mama and Papa’s bed in the living room.

            The city rebuilt, and then was bombed again.

            They did not rebuild, and were bombed again.

            The first Christmas came where there were no presents, but there were no complaints. “We’re together,” Mama said as they sat around the table, food on their plates for the first time in two days. “We will always be together.”

            “When we grow up,” Pietro said one night, as they lay awake from the hunger, “we’re going to live in America.”

            “Ugh,” Red replied. It was cold, and they were huddled in the same bed underneath all of their blankets. “Not America.”

            “Why not?”

            “They’re trying to kill us.”

            “That was last month. This month it’s Russians.”

            “They’ll be back.”

            “In America, you don’t get bombed.”

            Red thought about it. He hated America with a passion that didn’t seem like it could be contained by his small body. “England,” he said finally. “We’ll move to England.”

            Pietro considered it. “Spice Girls. Yes. We’ll move to England.”

            That made Red laugh.

            The next day, as they were getting dressed, Red looked at him, and said, “How tall are you?”

            Pietro stopped, shirt half onto his body. A little guilty, he said, “I don’t know.”

            Red stared at him, then grabbed a pencil. He went to stand against the wall, and held it out to Pietro.

            Rolling his eyes, Pietro said, “Mama will kill us if we write on the wall—“

            “When have you ever cared about that?” Red shook the pencil at him, insistent. “Do it.” Reluctant, Pietro took it. Glaring at him, Red said, “I’ll feel it. If you lie.”

            Grimacing, Pietro put the pencil against the top of Red’s head, and marked his height. Red stepped away, then shoved Pietro against the wall. His brother gave a little hiss at him, but Red just pushed him again.

            “Stay still,” he muttered. He reached up, putting the pencil on top of Pietro’s head, and etched a little line. Red stepped back, but Pietro didn’t move. Red kicked him. “Let me see.”

            Slinking away from the wall, Pietro crossed his arms. Red looked at the marks, accepting what he saw. Pietro was an inch taller than him.

            “It doesn’t mean anything,” Pietro muttered.

            “It means you’ll be tall,” Red said, staring at the marks. For some reason, this was the moment he let himself really consider the future. “You’ll be tall. You’ll look like you’re supposed to. Everyone will call me Wanda and I will look exactly like they expect me to.”

            “Stop it.”

            Red looked at him. They didn’t even look like one another anymore. Pietro’s hair had gone dark, and his face looked heavier than Red’s. Red’s hair was still light brown, his appearance elfin. All of a sudden, Red was tired, and hungry, and he sure as hell didn’t feel like a child. “Why? It’s true.”

            Pietro opened his mouth. Red knew he was going to lie, tell him that everything would be okay. That somehow they’d figured it out.

            Then Pietro smiled crookedly and shrugged. “We’re not going to live that long.”

            Red stared at him, then started to laugh. They both laughed so long and loud, giddy with hunger and black humor that their Mama came in, and yelled at Red for not having a shirt on, saying it was indecent.

            From then on, though, any time something went wrong, a teacher told Red to act more ladylike, or Pietro got in trouble for saying ‘my brother,’ at the end of the day, lying in bed, one of them would say to the other, “Just remember—we’re doomed.”

 

 _I’m doomed_ , Red thought.

            He looked at the blood. It was dark, almost black. For a second he’d thought he was dying. That he had cancer. But he realized that it was still at least a little red.

            It was dark because it was the first time. He didn’t know how he knew that. He just did.

            He’d felt sick. His insides had hurt all day, in a way he hadn’t recognized. He was scared.

            “Do you want me to walk you home, brother?” Pietro asked, as Red sat on the ground, curled over.

            “No.”

            “What do you want to do?”

            “Die,” Red groaned.

            He had come home, and Mama had been there. Red told her how he felt, that his stomach ached and he felt—just _gross_. Mama had given him a long, strange look, and told him to go to the bathroom.

            That’s when Red realized he was doomed.

            He flushed the toilet, and washed his hands, and didn’t look in the mirror. He almost never did. It only told lies.

            When he opened the door, his mother was looking right at him. Red avoided her eyes, blushing.

            “Well,” Mama said. “That’s that.” She put down the pair of pants she’d been fixing for Papa. “Do you know what to do?”

            “About what?”

            She sighed. “Wanda.”

            He had learned to live with the name, the way a person will learn to live with a particularly unattractive growth. The name was just a thing he’d leave behind when he left this place, this awful concrete place where sometimes they slept in the tub or cowered in doorways. He would leave it behind, and no one would call him ‘she’ and everything would just be goddamn fairies and unicorns.

            That day, though, he said, “Don’t _call_ me that.”

            Mama furrowed her brows. “Call you what?” Red grimaced, just wanting to hide in their room, but Mama let out an exasperated breath. “Oh, Wanda, not this again—“

            “That’s not my name!” Red snapped.

            “Yes!” his mother said, tossing up her hands. She was tired. Red could see how drained she was. And he didn’t care. “That’s your name. You know how I know it’s your name? I gave it to you.”

            “You gave me the wrong name.”

            “I gave you the wrong name.”

            “Yes,” Red hissed.

            “Then what’s your name?”

            “Red.”

            Mama put her hands on the table. “Why? Why is that your name? Why isn’t Wanda your name?”

            “You know why!”

            “Stop this,” Mama pleaded. “Stop. Do you not understand—do you not understand what’s happening around us? All that’s happening—can’t you stop this silly story? You’re not a child anymore. That’s what this means. That’s what today means. You’re not a little girl anymore—“

            “I’m not a girl!” Red yelled. His fists were curled at his sides. He thought wildly that if he could, he would make everything in this room explode.

            “Yes!” his mother yelled back. “You are! And as of today—my God—you could even have babies if we’re not careful—“

            “Stop it!” Red screamed. He screamed so loud that his throat was hoarse.

            His mother stared at him, wide eyed. With his eyes. “Wanda—“

            “Don’t call me that! That’s not what I am, that’s not who I am, so don’t call me that, don’t—“

            “Young lady, calm down—“

            “I’m not _her_!” Red screamed. “I’m not her, I’ve never been her, I’m _me_ , you stupid bitch!”

            He spun into his room, slamming the door behind himself. His head was pounding. His stomach hurt. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening.

            He heard the steps storming across the apartment, and he pushed his whole body up against the door, but there weren’t any locks and he was skinny and there wasn’t anything he could do. Mama shoved the door open, and then he was grabbed by the back of his hair, the back of his dress.

            “Come here!” Mama said, dragging him out of the room.

            Red fought, kicking and flailing his hands, but his mother had him in a vise grip. When he realized she was taking him back to the bathroom, he doubled his efforts. He didn’t want to go back there. He didn’t know what she was going to do, but he did _not_ want to go back in there.

            Mama shoved him inside, then pushed him over the sink. She forced his face up close to the mirror. “Look!” she demanded.

            “Stop it!”

            She shook him so hard that Red could feel his bones shake. “Look at yourself! Look! What do you see?!”

            He didn’t want to look.

            But he did.

            He saw a skinny girl with big eyes that were filling with tears. He saw long hair that couldn’t be classified as anything other than beautiful. He saw a white dress that was ragged around the collar, but which fit him perfectly. Not like Pietro’s clothes, which he sometimes pulled on at night. He saw exactly what his mother saw.

            “What do you see?” he heard his mother say.

            Red stared at himself, watching tears start to fall.

            He was shaken again. “What do you see, Wanda? A girl! That’s what you are! Stop this! Stop being this stubborn freak and playing games and be who you are! You’re a girl ! You will _always_ be a girl!”

            She let him go, and Red fell against the sink. He let out a long, low moan. Letting his head rest against the porcelain, he began to sob. He heard his mother walk away, the bounce of the mattress springs in the living room.

            But he was falling. He drooped onto the ground. Reaching out a hand, he slowly shut the door. Then he laid down on the floor, and cried and cried and cried.

 

No one said anything at the dinner table.

            Red could feel Pietro glancing at him. Usually, they each sat on their own side of the square table. But Pietro had set the table, and he had put his and Red’s things side by side, and pulled his chair next to Red’s as well.

            When he’d come home, Red had been lying in bed, facing the wall. He heard the hesitation in Pietro’s voice. “Are you still feeling sick?”

            “Yes,” Red said hollowly.

            “Why’s Mama upset?”

            “I don’t know.”

            She had come to the door an hour after Red started crying. He remained on the floor, hair matted over his face from all his tears. He stared through the veil. He wasn’t Me. He wasn’t Other Pietro. He wasn’t Red. He wasn’t anyone.

            Mama sat down on the other side of the door. “Sweetheart? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just….” He heard a long shaky breath. “I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I just want you and your brother safe and happy and whole. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Wanda, please. Please come out.”

            He hadn’t moved. He had barely breathed. Eventually his mother had gotten up, and he thought he might have heard her cry too, but he didn’t even move then. When he couldn’t lay on the floor anymore, he got up and went to their room.

            Papa looked around at everyone, spooning soup into his mouth. He nudged Red’s foot from across the table. “Mama says you’re not feeling well, little one.”

            Red shook his head, slightly.

            “Eat some soup. That’s good for when you’re sick.”

            “Soup’s good all the time,” Pietro said, even though they all knew he hated that they had soup almost every night of the week. “Come on. You don’t want me getting sick too.”

            Red could only move the spoon through the bowl. He didn’t want anything in his stomach. Didn’t want to think or breathe or move.

            _I’m always going to be stuck like this_.

            He pushed the bowl away.

            He felt all the eyes on him. You didn’t choose not to eat in this house. It wasn’t done. There was no knowing when—if—the next meal would come.

            After a pause, he heard Mama’s chair push back, but he didn’t look up. Let whatever punishment come. He didn’t know how it could get any worse.

            “Maybe some bread?” his mother suggested, going to the counter, and he could hear the apology in her voice. Could hear the plea for forgiveness.

            _I can_ never _forgive you_ , Red thought, and meant it with all his heart.

            He was so lost in himself that he was the last to hear it. It wasn’t until his father said, “What the hell is—“ that he heard the whistle. Red lifted his head. He was so dazed that he didn’t understand.

            But Pietro had already grabbed him, the chair falling from under him, as Father yelled, “The bed, get under the—“

            Pietro threw him under the bed at the same moment the world opened up above them. Gasping, Red saw things moving—things were falling, they were _disappearing_ —and without thinking, he grabbed Pietro’s hands. He yanked as hard as he could as the ground bucked underneath them, and they both rolled under the bed, Pietro’s back hitting the wall, and Red hitting him.

            Then the floor disappeared.

            Red screamed as he watched their fridge fall through the massive hole in the floor, and then he realized that it wasn’t their fridge, it was the fridge in the apartment next door. He could see through to the next apartment—the next—

            Pietro threw his arms and legs around him, clutching him close as the ceiling began to collapse above them. The mattress bounced, and then went convex with a heavy weight, pressing down only a few inches from Red’s right eye. He stared at it, hyperventilating.

            The floor began to tilt, and Pietro said, “Hold on! Hold on hold on hold—“

            The world tilted, and collapsed on them.

 

When Red woke, it was still light outside. It could have been five minutes later or an hour. Everything was dusty. He coughed, and tried to raise his hand to cover his mouth, but discovered that he couldn’t move his hands.

            Panic set in, and he said, “Pietro? Pietro, are you okay?”

            There was a groan from behind him, and Red was so relieved that he almost wet himself. He felt Pietro move behind him, and tried to look for him, but it was so tight—everything was so heavy—

            “Are you okay?” He waited for an answer, then lost his patience. “Pietro! Are you okay?!”

            “Ow,” came the answer.

            “Can you move? Are you hurt? Can you move?”

            A few seconds passed, and the answer came in a voice that sounded very much like Pietro trying to be brave instead of actually being brave. “No. I can’t move. Can you move?”

            “No.” Red was about to ask what to do, to ask about their parents, but then he heard it, that terrible whistle. “Oh God,” he whispered.

            “Oh God,” Pietro echoed. “Hold on to me. Just hold onto me—“

            It was coming closer and closer. It became a scream.

            Red pushed his head back against Pietro’s because it was the only thing he could move. “We’ll be together,” he whispered, but it was lost beneath the screech of the incoming shell.

            It hit the ground ten feet away from them in the rubble. It hit with a very defined and echoing _plunk_ , lodging itself in the debris.

            They stared at it. Red could hear his heartbeat. He could hear Pietro’s.

            And he realized he could hear the heart of that terrible thing. It was ticking.

            He was too scared to speak, could barely breathe. All he could do was stare at the living thing that was primed to kill them both.

            That, and the word written on the side.

 

They were trapped in the bombed out building for two days before they were rescued. Trapped beneath the bed, and the concrete, and the steel, their home collapsed around them.

            Taking everything with it.

            “They’re dead,” Red said on the second night, as the rescue crews had to retreat. Some floor had given way, and he didn’t believe that they were ever going to come.

            “Don’t say that.”

            “They’re both dead.”

            He felt Pietro crying behind him, but he said nothing to comfort him. He stared at the shell, and he stared at the word.

 

There was an orphanage in Kamaj. They both ended up there after three days in the hospital. Pietro’s arm was broken, and Red was a walking map of bruises.

            When they arrived at the orphanage, Red was told to go to the girls’ dormitory, and Pietro to the boys’. Pietro started to say, “No, I want to stay with—“

            “Do as you’re told,” Red said flatly. He left Pietro there, and went with the woman with the curly brown hair and the lines on her face.

            He sat on his bed, feeling nothing.

            The woman did not seem given to many words—this assumption would prove correct over the years—but she sat down by Red, and pulled something from her pocket. “In a little while—maybe there will be some more things that you can find from home. But these are yours now.” She opened Red’s hand and dropped three rings into it.

            He looked at them, and understood what it meant. In the hospital, when he was supposed to be sleeping, he heard the nurses talking. Those poor children, trapped in the building for two days. The father, well, there’s not even enough to bury. The mother, they only found an arm. A neighbour was able to identify them because everyone always knew how Iris Maximoff loved to wear as many rings as possible.

            The rings were too big for the rest of his fingers, but they fit on his thumb. “Do you want me to keep them safe for you?” the woman asked.

            “No,” Red said in his new voice. It wasn’t a voice made for laughing or telling jokes or stories. It was a voice meant for the bare necessities. “I will wear them.”

 

He stayed away from Pietro for two days before his brother broke into the girls’ bathroom one night when Red was alone.

            “What are you doing in here?” Red asked, wrapped in a towel.

            His brother looked at him in disbelief, his left arm in a cast, body still covered in bruises. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

            “I’m tired. I don’t want to talk.”

            “Pietro—“

            “Don’t call me that.”

            Shaking his head, Pietro said, “I’ve always called you that—“

            “That’s not my name. That’s _your_ name. My name is Wanda.”

            His brother stared at him a long moment, then said, “Don’t.”

            Shrugging, Red said, “Don’t what?”

            “Just don’t.”

            “We’re not children anymore. It’s time to stop playing games.”

            “This isn’t a game.” Pietro looked at him, trying to get Red to react, but he didn’t have it in him to react. He said, “Listen. You’re my _brother_.”

            Red lost his patience. He yanked his towel off and dropped it on the ground. Pietro immediately looked away, his cheeks flushing. “Look at me,” Red commanded. Pietro just cringed, and turned his eyes further from him. “If I’m your brother—if my body looks like yours—then why can’t you look at me?”

            Pietro didn’t reply. Red grabbed his towel, and wrapped it around himself, around the soft, horrible things that had begun to grow on his chest. He hated them now, but he would learn to live with it. He had been stupid—he had been a freak—for far too long.

            “I’m your _sister_ ,” Red said. “You don’t ever call me your brother again. You call me by my name, my real name. Stop being such a child. I can’t hear you. That was a game we played when we were little. We have more important things to worry about, if you haven’t stopped to look around. We’re alone. We don’t have time for you to be foolish.”

            He stormed out of the bathroom, arms wrapped around himself and his hair dripping down his back.

            Not for a moment could he completely convince himself that what he said was true.

 

Red sat down on the curb by Pietro. For a long moment, they didn’t say anything.

            He was wearing a red dress that was too big for him. But he liked red, and he reasoned that he could grow into it.

            “They took everything,” Pietro said at last.

            “Yes.”

            They watched the tanks rumble down the street. Red didn’t know whose side they were on. He assumed theirs, but he couldn’t be sure.

            “I’m going to kill him.”

            Red looked at him. Pietro looked older. For a moment, he saw the young man that Pietro was becoming. That Red would never be. “Who?”

            Pietro blinked, then turned to him. “Stark.”

            Red held out his hand. Pietro looked down at it. He studied the rings on Red’s thumb, then he threaded their fingers together. Red understood that they had made a pact. They sat together, and watched the tanks go by.

 

On their birthday, Pietro was two inches taller than Red. He could run almost twice as fast as him, and when they were allowed outside to do sports, Pietro was always the best. His once skinny shoulders were starting to broaden.

            Red didn’t care about sports. He was teaching himself English from old textbooks and from watching the battered black and white TV in the girls’ dormitory. He sat on his bed and read and thought. The girls were all fairly tough—you didn’t stay soft in a Sokovian orphanage—but no one messed with Red.

            Not after he broke two of Stasia’s teeth.

            Red woke in the middle of the night on their birthday, Pietro’s hand on his shoulder. His head had been shaved because of the lice. Red had managed to keep his.

            It used to be that he would have known Pietro was coming. But while he couldn’t convince himself that he was what everyone thought, that other special thing had faded away. Red would try to reach out, try to remember how it had all once come so easily. It never worked. He couldn’t hear Pietro. Not the way he used to.

            Sitting up, Red looked at Pietro in expectation. Pietro cocked a finger. Silently, Red slipped out of bed, and followed him into the hall.

            He raised his brows. Pietro was fidgeting. “I…got us a birthday present.”

            “What kind?”

            Pietro looked around again, then led him out of the building. They went around back, until they reached the shed. Pietro got down on his knees, and pulled out a bag. “You showed me a picture in one of your books. It looked easy, so I don’t know if I got it right or not. You have to tell me if I got it wrong.”

            He opened it up, and showed Red.

            It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. He lifted his eyes to Pietro’s.

            His brother said, “There are jeeps by the police station.” His face darkened. “They all say Stark.”

            “Then why are we standing here?”

            Ten minutes later, they were hidden in an alley not far from the soldiers. Pietro was right. Red could see three tan coloured jeeps, and every last one had Stark’s name on the side. Insides curdling with hatred, he got a better hold on the bottle.

            Looking at Pietro, he asked, “Are you sure you can hit it?”

            His brother gave a cocky snort. Red didn’t doubt him. Not at all.

            “Make a wish.” Red flicked the lighter open.

            “I’m about to get it.”

            Red lit the rag on fire, and passed it to Pietro. Without skipping a beat, Pietro stepped out from the shadows, and in one fluid motion threw the bottle of gasoline at the closest jeep.

            They were running the second they heard the glass break. Red could hear yells behind him, but he didn’t look back. Pietro grabbed his hand, and they fled together, up the hill.

            When they heard the explosion, they finally stopped. Wide eyed, they looked down at the scene a few streets away. There was obviously a fire raging, and a plume of orange and red burst into the air with a thunderous _whoosh_.

            “Holy shit,” Pietro said. “I can’t believe that worked.”

            But Red was laughing. He was laughing since the first time his parents died. Pietro looked at him, surprised, and grinned. Red had to bend over, his hands on the thighs of his nightgown.

            When he caught his breath at last, Pietro said, “So—if this is how we’re celebrating twelve—what the hell are we going to do when we turn thirteen?”

            “I’ll learn how to make a pipe bomb,” Red said, and meant it. They looked at each other and cracked up again, then headed back to the orphanage.

           

The other kids called him a witch.

            It was because he liked black and wore dark makeup that he stole. Also, because he told the younger girls he’d put a spell on them if they didn’t leave him alone.

            He had a reputation. So did his brother, but people liked his brother. Pietro was funny and personable. Red was the only one who got to see the part underneath. He got to see the anger, the sadness. Pietro got away with more than Red did, because he smiled. Red didn’t smile for anyone but Pietro.

            Mistress Karnikov stopped at the end of his bed, letting out an aggrieved sigh. “Wanda.”

            Red raised his eyes from his book on the Second World War.           

            “I can _see_ your underwear.”

            Red looked down at himself. He was laying back against his pillow, wearing a thin black tank top and a short black skirt that covered his ass and not much else. With his legs pulled up to rest his book upon, he figured that yeah, his underwear probably were visible.

            Voice flat, Red said, “You want to see more, it’ll cost extra.”

            Rolling her eyes, Karnikov kept walking. Red went back to his book, flipping past the section on Captain America. He liked the parts about the German side more.

            “Hey witch.”

            “Hey, girl who had sex with her father.”

            There was a titter from the other girls. He figured Tiana would probably just go off in a huff, but the girl said, “Your brother wants to see you.”

            Of course. The girls all had crushes on Pietro. They’d put up with a lot from Red, so long as they thought it curried favour.

            Tossing aside his book, Red grabbed his red shawl off the end of the bed. Tossing it onto his shoulders, he went outside.

            Pietro was waiting for him. He was a lot bigger than Red now, and he had a little mustache that he was proud of. Red kept telling him to shave it, that it looked ridiculous, but he was envious too.

            Standing up with a smile, Pietro said, “Guess who’s in town?”

            Walking beside him, Red said, “The general?”

            “Oh yes.”

            “Witch!” yelled one of the kids.

            Red turned and hissed at him. The kid jumped a couple inches off the ground and ran away. They continued on, as if nothing had happened. “That traitor,” Red said, “daring to show his face in Kamaj. And no one does anything.”

            “Well, they’re protesting outside his house right now.”

            “Oh yes. Protesting. That does so much.” Red shook his head in disgust. “Adults.”

            “I thought we could do something else.”

            “Like what?”

            “Like burn his house down.”

            Red nodded. “That would work.”

            They walked a little ways more, and Red could see that Pietro had something else to say. He was hesitating, though. When that happened, Red got nervous. His brother was always talking.

            “So,” Pietro said, looking away, “Dimitri came to me. Wanted to talk about you.”

            Screwing up his face, Red said, “Why?”

            Pietro shrugged. “He likes you.”

            A few moments passed before Red said, “Oh.”

            “He was asking me if I minded, if he asked you out.”

            Red realized he was blushing. Dimitri. He was tall and thin and about two months from ageing out of the orphanage. He had dark hair and blue eyes and Red had never bothered thinking about him like that because he was a nice guy. No one wanted Red. He was—weird.

            When he realized Pietro was waiting on him, Red shrugged. “Whatever.” He pulled his shawl tighter, and started to play with his rings. Pietro was still looking at him. “What?”

            “I was wondering—do you like boys?”

            Flushing even more, Red said, “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I like boys?”

            Pietro sighed a little. He paused before saying, “Because—you know because.”

            They hadn’t discussed it in years. Red hadn’t let it come up. He didn’t let it come up now. “I don’t know. Why? You think I like girls? You think I’m a lesbian?”

            “You know that’s not what I mean—“

            “Do you like girls?”

            “You know I like girls—“

            “And I like boys. I’m a girl, and I like boys.”

            “Fine.”

            “Fine,” Red snapped.

            Dimitri never got the chance to ask him out. That night, they were caught trying to burn down a Sokovian general’s house, one who was a collaborator with the Americans, and they were thrown in prison.

            When they got out of prison, they were tossed out of the orphanage.

            Pietro said, “Pity. I really loved it there.”

            “Yeah,” Red said, putting his bag over his shoulder. “It’s a real heartbreak.”

            They turned and walked into town, trying to figure out what would happen next.

 

Pietro did a little bit of everything, and Red worked in a coffee shop. They had a little apartment near to downtown, and lived their lives.

            At least, the best they could. Sokovia was never a quiet place to live. Always some new misery, some protest, some new foe. Without ever saying a word about it, they did not hide in the doorway or under the bed if the bombs began to fall. There was only one bedroom in the apartment, and they took turns, trading off the bed or the couch in the living room. But if the bombs came in the night, whoever was on the couch would come into the bedroom, and get under the covers. Red would put his head on Pietro’s chest, and Pietro would wrap his arms around Red, but there was nothing desperate or scared about it, no matter how close the bombs came. They understood, after the first time, that it was better to die quickly than to wait.

            There was always a construction crew to work on, and so Pietro was never short of work. Red would sweep the rubble away from the front of the shop, then go back inside and serve thick, black coffee to people who were just as tired of this life as he was.

            Sometimes, when they shared a day off, they would leave town. Hitch hike, and then walk up as high as they could into the mountains until Red was short of breath. They’d sit down, and eat sandwiches, and talk about what life would be like, if they could fix it.

            “No Americans.”

            “No Russians.”

            “No Chinese.”

            “No religious extremists.” Pietro tried to take the other half of Red’s sandwich, but he got his hand smacked for the pleasure. When he cursed in Sokovian, Red insisted, “ _English_.”

            Pietro gave him a dark look, and said, “Fine. Do not be a bitch. You are not eating that. I want it.”

            Red held it out to him. “Better.”

            They needed to speak the language of the outsiders. Red knew now that the outsiders never really considered them. This place that was in the middle of everywhere. They weren’t going to learn their tongue, so Red and Pietro needed to know theirs. Red had spoken it for years, but Pietro still lagged behind him a little. Red would only let him speak in English now.

            Red swallowed some tea, and then really looked around. They spent so much time in the city that it was rare for him to truly see this place for what it was. The mountains. The water. The old fortress that overlooked the city. A breeze blew by, and he could smell something sweet.

            “It is beautiful here,” he said.

            Pietro stopped, then lifted his head. “Yes.”

            “They don’t—they don’t ever think about that. They come through—with their weapons, and their tanks, and their planes, and they don’t care about us. They’ve never cared about us. And they don’t care about this either.” Red pointed across the valley, to a burnt crater in the side of the mountain. “Do you remember when that happened?”

            “I remember.”

            “They don’t. No one remembers, except you, and me—“ Red nodded to the city. “And them. We—we have to make them—“

            He struggled for the word. He was about to say ‘leave’ when Pietro said, “Pay.”

            Six of one, half dozen of another. “Yes.”

            “How?”

            Red looked over his home, and said, “We will find a way.”

 

“Oh God—God—you’re so beautiful, you’re—you’re so beautiful—“

            Red clapped his hand over Ygor’s mouth, silencing him. He clasped his legs tighter around his back, letting his head fall back as Ygor pounded him against the wall.

            This felt good. It didn’t always feel good, but this time it did. He didn’t mind being so much smaller than the men he took home. He liked tall men. He liked strong.

            He didn’t like when they spoke and reminded him of what they saw.

            He was all the way off the floor, Ygor holding him up. Ygor’s hands would probably bruise his hips—he didn’t mind that either.

            The man was still babbling beneath Red’s hand. _Shut up,_ Red wanted to say, _shut up shut up shut up_ , but he said nothing because he didn’t know what was happening with Ygor, but he was close. He tried to hold his hand tight, but it became hard and harder.

            He let himself just slip completely into the moment, crying out with each thrust, until he felt himself break apart. It was such a temporary reprieve. But for a few seconds, Red felt completely and utterly…fantastic.

            Only then he had to contend with Ygor still moving away, and the words were back. Pretty, sweet, beautiful. Red rolled his eyes, and patted his back. It would be over soon enough.

            It was. He unceremoniously got Ygor back in his clothes, pulling his shorts back on. He hadn’t bothered taking off his t-shirt. Red was never completely naked when he had sex.

            When he opened the door and pushed the large man out, Pietro was standing at the counter, eating cereal. “Evening.”

            Ygor stalled, but Red put a hand to his back and steered him towards the door. Coat in his hands, Ygor said what a great time he’d had while he pulled on his boots. Red simply nodded, moving around him and opening the door.

            Hopefully, Ygor said, “Maybe—we could—“

            Red slipped an arm around him, maneuvering him out the door. “Goodnight.” He closed the door after him and locked it.

            Pietro looked at him with a raised brow. “Ygor?”

            “Yes,” Red sighed, “my desperation does not seem to have any bounds.”

            He went to the sink. Turning on the water, he bent down and begun cupping water into his mouth. He gargled with it. Pietro began to gag. “Oh God—I don’t need to—“

            Spitting the water out, Red looked at him in confusion. Then his eyes cleared, and he said, “He tasted of cigarettes!” He slapped Pietro over the head, his brother hissing. “And as if you’re one to talk. Like I don’t hear what you do with your girls.”

            Red went to get his book off the coffee table, as Pietro muttered, “All right, brother, all right.”

            Red froze, his hand on the book.

            He didn’t have to turn to see that Pietro realized what he had said. The word cut him through. How many years? Was it nearly ten now? God, was it nearly ten? After all that time, the word felt—

            Right.

            Red picked up the book, pretending to look at it as he turned around. He could tell that Pietro was watching him, but Red just flipped through the book, looking at the illustrations of various explosives.

            When he couldn’t stand Pietro not saying anything for another second, Red said, “I could use a drink.”

            His brother made a face. “Ah—I might have finished the—“ He stood up all the way. “Buy you a drink?”

            “You can buy me a bottle.”

            Pietro smiled.

            Ten minutes later, they were walking down the street. Pietro was in his track suit like always, which made him look like a mobster, and Red was in one of his long skirts, and his red leather jacket. Pietro was keeping up the conversation, but Red couldn’t say much.

            He was still shaken. He knew…after all this time, he still _knew_ ….

            If it would only go away. He knew he didn’t—look like a boy, or sound like a boy. The truth was, he liked to wear his rings, and to paint his nails. He hated how Pietro’s tracksuits looked, and when he thought of wearing them he wanted to shudder.

            Nonetheless—he was a boy. He’d always been a boy.

            Pietro opened the door to the liquor store for him. He waved Red away. “Go. Get whatever you want. I’ll pay.” He went to the counter to watch the small TV the shop owner kept there.

            Red walked to the back of the store. He knew he wasn’t going to get whatever he wanted. He was going to get the dirtiest, cheapest vodka he could find, and get stupidly fucked up. Maybe alone in the bedroom, if Pietro would let him get away with it.

            Hard to believe that fifteen minutes before, he’d been having a moment of bliss.

            He was reaching for the grossest item he could find when Pietro said, “Red.”

            “Just a second—“

            “Red. Come here now.”

            He turned. Pietro was staring at the small, rabbit eared TV. Picking up the bottle, Red went to join him.

            They watched the TV together. The pictures of the flying man in the metal suit. Red felt his vision blur at the edges.

            Then there was the man in the suit. The man with the dark hair and the goatee.

            Tony Stark said, “I _am_ Iron Man.”

            Red put the bottle down on the counter. Pietro, meanwhile, grabbed the TV. He threw it down on the ground as the shopkeeper got to his feet, and proceeded to stomp the life out of it. Red watched dispassionately as Pietro kicked the TV to pieces, and then got his foot stuck in it. Pietro hopped around a few times, trying to dislodge it, before finally kicking it off.

            Red asked, “You feel better?”

            Catching his breath, Pietro nodded. “A little.” He pulled out his wallet, and said to the shopkeeper, “How much for the bottle and the TV?”

 

This was routine. This was almost comforting in its routineness.

            The screaming, the shouting. The rage. It was nice to be part of a mob.

            Red and Pietro were at the front, like they usually were. They were screaming at the building behind the line of police officers, who had their riot shields and helmets on. They knew the men behind the POLICIA insignia, and the men knew them.

            And _everyone_ knew that the house behind them was filled with SHIELD weapons.

            “Please disperse,” said a man with a bullhorn.”

            “FASCISTS!” Red screamed in English, catching the attention of one of the men behind the line. He was small and neat and dressed in a nice suit. Red hated him on general principles. He doubled his efforts. “That’s right, I called you a fascist, now get out of our _fucking country_!”

            Pietro was keeping up an endless string of Sokovian beside him. “Collaborating, pig fucking, mother’s tit sucking, ass licking _traitors_!” He took a breath, grinning at Red, then kept going.

            It was reaching the boiling point. Red could see the SHIELD agents starting to move, trying to figure how to get out. The policemen took out their batons, and began beating them against their shields in unison.

            Red and Pietro looked at one another. Without a word, they slipped back into the crowd. When they were a few rows back from the front, each of them pulled up the bandanas tucked under their collars, fastening them over their faces. Red put up his hood, and saw several others in the crowd do the same. He shrugged off his backpack, opening it up for Pietro.

            It was a classic for a reason. Pietro had the Molotov ready in about ten seconds. Red lit it for him, like he always did, and they caught each other’s eyes. He could see the smile in Pietro’s eyes before he turned and hurled the bottle.

            Only it didn’t happen like usual. Pietro didn’t throw it at the vehicles, or past the line of policemen, trying to startle them. No—this time he threw it directly at them.

            The bottle shattered against the shields, splattering the policemen with liquid fire. Red’s heart leapt upwards. He watched as one man went up almost instantly in flames, the others scattering around him.

            It was like the crowd all inhaled at once. Red looked up at Pietro. His brother was staring forward, his eyes more white then colour.

            “Oh fuck,” Pietro said hoarsely.

            Some of the policemen began to jump on the man on fire, fighting to get out the flames. The others turned on the crowd, and came at them as if a signal had been given. Behind them, he saw a machine gun pulled out.

            “Run,” Red said.

            He dropped the bag, and they turned and ran.

            Red pulled down his bandana, yanking off the hood. Pietro had his hand, saying, “Run, Red! Run! You have to run!”

            Shots were fired behind them. Red heard screaming, but he didn’t dare look back. He didn’t dare, he didn’t dare—

            Until Pietro let out a harsh gulp and his hand was ripped away. Red turned, and saw the riot officer lifting his baton again, even though Pietro was falling to the ground, eyes closed.

            Red did the only thing he could.

            He threw himself at the officer, climbing him like a tree, clinging to him. The man was so shocked he didn’t know what to do, the forward momentum of this small body still throwing him off his balance. Red jammed a hand upwards, shoving the mask off his face, and flung his head forward.

            He _bit_.

            The officer screamed, and fell, but Red fell with him. He clenched his teeth harder, even as blood burst into his mouth, as his mouth filled with it. They were on the ground, and they were rolling, the officer frantically punching him in the side as Red forced his teeth all the way through.

            Something came off in his mouth, and he was so surprised that he loosened his grip. The man punched him in the tit, and then shoved away from him, dropping onto his back.       

            Red got to his feet, spitting the thing out of his mouth and into his hand. He looked at it a moment, trying to figure out what it was, then got a look at the shrieking officer, how he was holding his hands to the blood spurting out of his nose. Well, what was left of it.

            Spitting aside a mouthful of blood, Red said, “You don’t ever touch my brother, _traitor_.”  

            That’s when he got his own baton to the head.

 

It was a few days before he saw his brother. He wasn’t fed much, and he took a few beatings, but all in all, he had expected worse.

            The guard led him down the hallway, clutching his arm. He hadn’t told Red where he was going. The look on his face was pained. Red didn’t know what that meant, but anything that made these people unhappy made him happy.

            The guard opened a door at the end of the hallway, and pushed Red in. Pietro looked up. Red could see the relief on his face, but he didn’t say anything. He was seated at a table, handcuffed to it, in a blue prison uniform much like Red’s. Unlike Red, he had a few days of scruff on his cheeks.

            There were no windows in the pale greenish room, and ugly fluorescents overhead. There was a chair next to Pietro, and a chair across from them.

            The guard pulled Red over next to Pietro, sitting him down hard, then handcuffed him to the table. Stepping back, he grimaced at them, and said, “Do something stupid. I dare you.” Pietro blew him a kiss, and the guard left the room in disgust, slamming the door behind himself.

            Once he was gone, they turned and took  in the sight of each other with bemused smiles. Pietro had a small scrape and bruise under one cheek, and Red could see a bump on the back of his head, but he didn’t look much the worse for wear. He knew he was in much worse shape.

            “I did not know a person could have so many black eyes.”

            Red shrugged.

            “Let me guess. I should see the other guy.”

            Red said, “Something like that.”

            Pietro took a moment, then said, “He died. The man I….” He cleared his throat. “He died.”

            Red saw the remorse in his eyes. The grief even. But that was not the road they had set out on. “Good,” said Red. Pietro blanched, for just a second, then pretended like he hadn’t. Red leaned closer with a small smile. “Did you think you were going to _start_ with Stark?”

            After a moment, he saw Pietro relax. His brother didn’t exactly look happy, but he smiled.

            The door opened, and Red sat back. A man with a shaved head and a monocle of all things stepped inside. He wore a black uniform that Red did not recognize. With a friendly smile, he said in English, “Good afternoon.” He shut the door behind himself, and walked over to the table, a folder in his hands. He set that down, then had a seat before them.

            For a moment, he just looked between the two of them. Pietro frowned, but Red just stared. This man looked different. He looked like he didn’t belong here, and not just because of that ridiculous monocle. So many people came to Kamaj who did not belong there.

            “Mr. Maximoff. Miss Maximoff. I’m happy to tell you that at the end of this meeting, you will be free to go.”

            German. The appearance was a stereotype, but the accent definitely gave him away. Pietro leaned forward. “We’re…free to go.”

            “Yes.”

            “I’m sorry. You must not understand. Do you know what I did?”

            “You killed a police officer, and she bit off another one’s nose.”

            Pietro turned to Red with wide eyes. His gaze not leaving the German, Red said, “He hit you.”

            Pietro turned back to the German. “Yes. I killed a police officer. She bit off one’s nose.” He gave it a moment. “And we’re free to go.”

            “Yes.”

            “Why?” said Red.

            “Because I want you let go. And because I want you to consider a proposition.”

            Red sat back, growling a little. Pietro said, “Proposition.”

            “An opportunity.”

            “We are fine here,” Red said.

            The German turned his eyes to her. “Are you? You do small things in a small place that has no bearing on the outside world. Everything you do isn’t so much as a ripple in a pond. And all the while, the world keeps tearing down your front door.” He folded his hands on the table. “I want to give you the opportunity to prevent that from happening. Ever again.”

            Red wasn’t buying. Whoever he was, whoever’s side he was on, it was just talk.

            Pietro waggled a finger at him. “You remind me of someone. It’ll come to me, but just looking at you—you remind me of someone.” He said to Red, “Who does he remind you of?”

            “A Nazi,” Red replied.

            To his consternation, perhaps even his befuddlement, the German’s smile warmed a little. “You’ll go far, Miss Maximoff. If you want to.”

            Red suddenly had a bad feeling. A really bad feeling.

            Like this was real.

            “We have the same enemies,” said the German.

            “I doubt that,” answered Red.

            “This is Sokovia,” said Pietro. “Everyone is our enemy. Because they do not give a damn how many times they crush us on their way to somewhere else.”

            “My enemy is chaos,” said the German. “No matter the country, no matter the faction. The people I work for oppose them all. We…are larger than nations.”

            Something about the way he said it.

            My enemy is chaos.

            “HYDRA,” Red breathed.

            This time, the German showed his teeth when he smiled. Pietro looked to Red. “What’s HYDRA?”

            “There is no HYDRA,” Red said softly. “It was destroyed.”

            The man shook his head. “Cut off one head….”

            “What the hell does that mean?” said Pietro.

            “Your sister understands.”

            Red said, “We don’t—we do not want anything to do with—“ Even as he said it, he realized that they were trapped. If this was true, if HYDRA still existed—God, they were as good as dead and had been from the moment the man spoke.

            “How would you like to kill an Avenger?” the German said.

            That shut Red up.

            “Stark,” said Pietro.

            Leaning back and crossing his legs at the knee, the German shrugged. “The alien, the soldier, the spy—whichever you please. Though I know the both of you have personal business with Herr Stark.”

            “Only that he killed our parents.”

            “Yes. He killed your parents. And the whole world looks to him like he is a savior. He just closed a hole in space with a nuclear weapon. Everyone— _loves_ Tony Stark. Everyone is forgetting.” The German lifted his hands, as if it was nothing. “A few dozen here, a few thousand there…how many decades did Stark Industries make their weapons before Mr. Stark had his abrupt change of heart? A few weeks in a cave, and he decides, no more weapons. And all is forgiven. He just saved the world. Now he is a god.”

            Pietro said in a low voice, “He is a monster.” Red glanced at him. Yes, he liked what the man was selling, but Pietro seemed ready to jump in without using his head.

            “Oh yes. He does as he pleases, when he pleases, with his weapons, only now he does it in a way that sells toys. Family friendly, sanctioned murder. And he has friends. They go where they like, when they like, kill who they like, and are accountable to none.”

            “SHIELD,” said Red. “They are accountable to SHIELD.”

            The German smirked, ever so slightly. “Then where are they? Does SHIELD know? They don’t. But I know.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because HYDRA is SHIELD. We see all that they see. And much, much more. That is how we’ve seen the two of you.”

            “Perhaps we don’t like being seen.”

            “This is not true. You have been waiting. You have been waiting, ever since the moment that second bomb hit. You’ve been waiting for the opportunity to make it right.”

            Red blinked. It was like the man had reached in and squeezed a hand around his heart.

            Pietro must have seen it, because he stepped in. “You don’t know us—“

            The German looked at him. “Don’t I? Who gave you the gasoline on your twelfth birthday?”

            They froze, dumbfounded.

            “We are everywhere. Every nation, every level, all working towards a common goal.”

            “Control,” said Red.

            “Peace,” the German countered. “Will it be painless? No. It is only liars and politicians who tell you peace can be attained without great cost. Many lives will be lost on the path to victory—have been lost. But the world—the world is sick. And it gets sicker with every passing day that the chaos continues. And now? Now the world has monsters. People who think they are better. Stronger. People who live outside of the rules. The kind of people who rain their weapons down on towns whose names they will never remember. But we remember. We always remember.” The German nodded slightly. “We need people who have not forgotten, whether the monsters say they’re sorry or not.”

            Red didn’t know what to do. He wanted real change. Real, lasting change. And he hated the Avengers. Good God, did he hate the Avengers. But HYDRA—how could that possibly be any better?

            Finally, he said helplessly, “What do you want with _us_?”

            The German smiled softly. “I intend to bring down the gods. That would take a miracle.” The corner of his mouth raised even more. “To be on the safe side, I’d like to have more than one.”

 

They went out of the city. Red couldn’t help his paranoia. He wondered if the apartment was bugged.

            Their apartment. Their tiny, useless, unimportant apartment. Possibly bugged.

            “What are we going to do?” he said, his arms around his knees. It was a cool night, the waxing moon reflecting off the water down at the base of the mountain.

            “I want to say yes.”

            “I know you do.” Red put his forehead against his knees. “But the problem is…we have to say yes.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “I mean….” He raised his head, and looked at Pietro. Pietro, with his stupid track suit on and his long dark hair. “If we tell them no, they will kill us. You know that, yes?”

            His brother frowned, then nodded. “I know.” He sighed. “But still. I _want_ to say yes.” Red nodded, looking back to the water. “Do you…want to say no?”

            “No,” Red said softly. “I want….”

            He cringed. Pietro leaned against him. “What do you want?”

            Red’s mouth hung open, then he said haltingly, “I don’t…want to…kill Stark.” He could feel Pietro’s eyes bulging. Red swallowed, and continued, “I want him to suffer. I want him to suffer, and suffer, and suffer. I want him to suffer as I have suffered. All these people—all these people who think they can decide for us—who think we’re nothing, who come here—who step on us like we’re _ants_ , like this isn’t an important place, like these people—like these people don’t suffer—I want them to know what I feel. I want them to feel it a thousand times over.”

            He was a bad person. A good person didn’t feel like this. A good person would want good things for the world. He just wanted the unjust to be punished.

            Red whispered, “I want to make it right.”

            He put his hands to his face, then pushed back his hair.

            “It bothered you. When he said that.” Red glanced away, and Pietro said, “I could see it.”

            Red looked down at the city. His eyes could find their old home, even now. All he had to do was look for the church, at the very middle. It was only three blocks to the east.

            “The day they died,” he said softly, “I came home early from school. Do you remember that?”

            “Yes.”

            “I fought with Mama. A bad fight. The…worst fight. She…told me to stop pretending. Told me I was a girl. That my name wasn’t….” Red swallowed, and twisted his hands together. “We yelled. _I_ yelled. I…called her a bitch. I did that. I can’t ever take that back. I screamed at her, and then I didn’t say anything else. She asked me for forgiveness, but I wouldn’t speak to her.” He pulled in a shaky breath. “And at dinner…I wouldn’t eat. She got up to get me bread instead. She wasn’t at the table, she was by the counter. Because I wouldn’t eat, because I was mad. So she wasn’t at the table. If she’d been at the table—“

            He sucked in a wheeze, and Pietro’s hand was on his hair. “No,” he said firmly. “ _No_. That was not your fault.”

            “You don’t know—“

            “ _I_ know. Hey. Look at me.” Red wouldn’t raise his head, so his brother put a hand under his chin and forced him to look up. “Pietro. I know. Because you are me. And I am you. We are two halves of one whole. No one knows you like I know you.” Pietro shook his head with a little smile. “Not even you, you silly boy.”

            Red felt his face crumpling. He pulled his chin out of Pietro’s hand, and got himself under control. Gritting his teeth, he whispered, “I have never been a very good boy.”

            “Maybe. But you’ve been a _terrible_ girl.”

            Red let out a bark, and wiped a hand under his nose.

            Pietro patted his back. “I will tell you once. Or I will tell you many times, until you believe me. It didn’t matter if she was at the counter or the table. Papa was at the table. He was closer to the bed then she was. And he died too. _We_ almost died. It doesn’t matter, table, counter. The only reason we survived was because we were on the _right_ side of the table. And they weren’t.”

            “You saved me. You put me under the bed.”

            “And you pulled me under the bed. You saved me too.”

            Red rubbed his hands over his knees, trying to keep himself together. “I’m…I’m afraid.”

            “Of what?”

            “If…if we do this…how are we any better than them?”

            “We will be better, because we will not hurt anyone _but_ them.”

            “You can’t know that. You can’t know what will happen.”

            Pietro thought, then said, “I promise you. No matter what. I’ve already….killing that police officer, Red, I…that is never going to happen again. I can’t tell you…I can’t tell you how that feels, to know I did that. He was one of them, but…one of us too. He was doing his job, and I….” Pietro picked himself up. “So never again. No matter what. If they want a monster, I’ll be a monster. But the only people I hurt are the people who keep bringing this god awful mess to us.” He raised a brow. “And no killing. Not—not even Stark. But we’ll make them suffer. You and me—we will make them all _suffer_.”

            Red looked at him, then smiled a little.

            “So? Will you be a monster with me?”

            “Oh God. HYDRA.”

            Pietro bumped his arm. “Red. Think about it. If they do to us—what they say they’re going to do—in the end, how would they stop us? Think about it. Right now, they have us trapped. Because you and me—we’re just two very good looking brothers in a backwoods city with not a lot going for us. We can’t say no, or they shoot us. But if we do this and we decide we’re done—what the hell could they do?”

            “And if it kills us?” Red countered. “He said it could kill us.”

            Pietro looked him square in the eyes and said, “We had a building dropped on us and it didn’t kill us. I like our odds.”

            Red looked at him. He trusted Pietro. “Okay.”

            He leaned against him, and Pietro wrapped his arms around him. Pietro kissed the top of his head, and murmured, “Mama loved you, and Papa loved you, and I love you. I’ll take care of you, and you take care of me.”

            “Because I am you,” Red whispered, “and you are me.”

 

Red climbed up out of his stupor. The room spun around him. For a moment, he couldn’t orientate himself.

            _I am on the bed and if I am on the bed then that is the floor and that must be the ceiling_ —

            Why were they whispering? He could hear people murmuring. “Stop that,” he murmured, throwing out an arm.

            The movement made him sick. He hadn’t eaten much in the last few days, but it all started to come back now, and he threw himself in the direction of the toilet. He vomited half in it, half on it.

            Something struck him, and someone said, “Ow.”

            “Stop that,” Red repeated. He heard a thud, and at the same time something hit his arm. “Stop that!” He raised himself up enough to look around.

            Nothing. Only the glass wall of his cell, scientists looking in at him. He could hear whispering, but their mouths weren’t moving.

            He was alone. He was imagining things.

            Another thump, and he felt a pain in his head. “Ah,” Red hissed.

            The intercom came on. “Miss Maximoff? Are you well?”

            He looked up in disbelief. “Do I look well?” He waved at the toilet he was currently clinging to.

            A voice said, “Oh fuck—fuck—fuck—“

            Red looked around. “Pietro?”

            “Miss Maximoff?”

            “My brother. What is—what is happening to my brother?”

            They told him yesterday that Pietro had changed. Red remembered that now. He had been so warm—and everything had been spinning. But Pietro had lived. He was changed.

            “Is my brother all right?” he said, louder.

            “Your brother is quite well, Miss Maximoff—“

            “Fuck—fuck—fuck—“

            “Then why aren’t one of you helping him?”

            “Miss Maximoff?”

            “Listen to him! Why isn’t one of you—“

            His vision split.

            He was seeing the doctor at the table in the dark room—and yes, he was still seeing the doctor at the table in the dark room, but from a different angle. Then he threw himself at the ceiling for some reason.

            “ _Ow_!” Red yelped, grabbing his head. “What is—“ No. No, he was still on the ground by the toilet.

            He saw his hands, flicker before him a moment. His hands. His small, petite hands. And large hands. Hands he knew.

            Red lifted his head. He blinked a few times, then turned his face towards the wall.

            The room was soundproofed. He knew they must have soundproofed it, because he knew the soldiers—not even HYDRA’s soldiers—could have listened to him scream for so many days on end.

            “Fuck—ow—what—fuck—fuck fuck fuck—“

            “Pietro?” Red said.

            He realized know that he wasn’t hearing the voice with his ears. But he was hearing it.

            It was so familiar that it broke his heart. The sensation. He had tried so long and so hard to get it back. He could hear other murmurs too, but above all, he heard his brother.

            Red pushed himself off the floor. He wavered a moment, light headed. This time, when the flicker came, it wasn’t so—certain. Could—could he control this?

            God, would he want to?

            He climbed onto his bed, and started tapping against the wall. He didn’t know that they’d moved Pietro next door. He hadn’t known there was a next door. “Pietro? Brother? Brother, it’s me. It’s me.”

            All of a sudden, he was desperate to see his brother. To know that he was all right. He could tell that Pietro was being hurt, but it didn’t seem to frighten him. He seemed more annoyed and frustrated than anything.

            Red began to bang his palms against the wall. “I can hear you! Pietro?” His want was suddenly a fury, and he yelled, “I CAN HEAR YOU!”

            Red strands of light bloomed around his hands, and the concrete cracked beneath them.

            Startled, Red lifted his hands. The light shimmered around his fingers.

            _Red?_

            He looked up. He felt his mouth curve into a smile he hadn’t made in years. “I can hear you,” he whispered.

            _Red, is that you?_

“I can hear you,” Red laughed. He put his hands to the wall, and the whole thing began to shake and crumble. He let out a howl of triumph, and pushed the red light further. “I CAN HEAR YOU!”


	3. Escape

When he gets to Moanda, Red stands on the shores of the ocean.

            It’s a luxury he can’t afford. He has to be fast. The only thing he has on his side is that the element of surprise has given him a head start. He can’t waste precious moments sightseeing, not after the rocky trip down the river. For all he knows, Steve and Sam could have already caught up with him. They could already be here.

            So he counts to one hundred. The sun is setting over the ocean, and everything is gold. He has never seen another sight like it before.

            Before these years, these terrible years, he doesn’t think he would ever stop to look at a sunset.

            _You’ve done it. Now move_.

           

He knows the airport is where they will look for him. They’ll know he needs to get out of the country. God, he needs to get out of the _continent_.

            He still takes the risk. He smiles at a man with a small twin engine, and sends him a thought. Five minutes later, they are in the air, which is stupid and reckless, and Red cannot help but hope they’re not shot down by drones.

            It’s been a long day, and he can’t help but softly giggle at the idea of it. All this time. All this work. And to be bombed out of the air. It’s not _funny_ funny, but still a little funny.

            Somehow they make it to Niger. He has no idea exactly how it happened, and when he wakes the pilot is starting to freak out, but Red soothes him, and they make a landing at the nearest municipal airport. Red puts the thought of sleep into his head, and when he gets off the plane, there are two armed men running to greet him.

            Red puts his arms up obligingly, and then lets loose his will.

            He does this for the next few days, jumping from municipal airport to the next, never getting on anything large than a twin engine that maybe does two hundred miles an hour. When he gets to Morocco, he leaves the planes behind.

            Morocco has two kinds of coasts. One is the Atlantic. The other is the Mediterranean.

            Red should have a better plan. This is stupid and sentimental. But he doesn’t know where else to go.

            He can’t go through the Mediterranean. It is overwhelmed with refugees. He will have to go north.

            He’ll have to cross into Spain.

            When he reaches Tangier, it has been five days since he last showered. He is hot and sweaty and exhausted. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks when he slinks into the first place he sees with the words ‘Inn’ on the sign, and says, “One room for tonight, please.”

            Red has never been one to take baths. He likes showers. Up and down, so he doesn’t have to look at his own body. But he fills the tub with lukewarm water, then climbs in. It is such a comfort that he opens his mouth in a wordless moan.

            He lets himself fall beneath the water. He opens his eyes, sees the world through a filter. His hair drifts in front of his face.

            Red sits up. He is naught but aches and pains and exhaustion. The bed calls to him. He looks to it with a longing eye.

            But a deep part of him says, _Now_.

            So he gets dressed, finally putting on the change of clothes he’s carried all this time in his backpack, and goes back downstairs. He asks the man at the desk what he’s looking for.

            The man tells him.

 

The woman with the scissors looks horrified.

            “All of it,” Red repeats.

            The woman touches his long, thick brown locks. Runs her fingers through it slightly. “What about perhaps just a few inches? To keep it healthy?”

            Red’s eyes change colour, and the argument falls from the woman’s eyes. She pulls Red’s hair into a ponytail, and without ceremony cuts through it above the tie.

            His hair, chin length and shorter at the back, drapes forward. Red looks at himself in the mirror, and smiles. It may be the first time he’s ever done so honestly.

            On the way back to the hotel, he changes out his clothes. He is wearing boy’s jeans, and a t-shirt that says Maghreb Fez, and a hoodie.

            The hoodie is blue.

            He asks for them nicely. In the old days, he would have just said, “I’m taking this,” and not given another thought to the vendor’s docile faces. Now, he says softly, “May I please have this?” and when the people nod, Red gives them a little smile. He says thank you.

            It is theft. At least he recognizes that he’s doing something wrong.

            When he gets back to the hotel, he glances at himself in a mirror. If he does that, for just a moment, he sees the illusion of his true self. The things on his chest wreck it, of course, but if he lets his eyes just glance over—the jeans, the jacket he would have never chosen because of the colour—and the hair. The hair, cut no longer than an inch. He feels about ten pounds lighter.

            As he’s walking up the stairs, someone is saying, “Sir? Excuse me sir? _Sir_.”

            Red is halfway up the stairs before he realizes that is meant for him.

            In shock, he turns and looks down. It is the man from the front desk. The man blanches, thinking he has made a mistake, and says, “I apologize, miss—I thought—“

            “It is all right. Was there anything I could help you with?”

            “Oh no. No, please. Apologies again.”

            He climbs into his bed, wearing nothing but his boxers. Arms wrapped around his pillow, flat on his belly, he has a big grin on his face. His face doesn’t even know how to feel about the weight and breadth of his grin.

            “Sir,” Red whispers, and buries his face against the pillow. He is blushing. He is nothing but delighted. “Sir,” he repeats, and falls asleep.

           

In the morning, he leaves the hotel after a long chat with the man at the desk. He’s there again. Red slept ten hours straight. He talks to the man about the city, about his job, about his life. Red is not good at conversation, but this is the first person outside of his brother to refer to him as male, even though the man thought it was a mistake.

            At last, the man, whose name is Wasim, says, “You cannot pay, can you.”

            Red swallows, then admits, “No. I cannot pay. Are—you upset with me?”

            Wasim shrugs. “You look like someone with a sad story. And I am susceptible to a sad story.”

            A sad story. It certainly has its sad spots. Then there’s the rest, which is just horrible.

            Red thinks, then says, “I made…many mistakes. I made nothing but mistakes. And now—I just want to make it right.” The old words bring back a bitter wound, and he flinches. “It can never be made right, though, can it. When a thing is done.”

            “No.”

            “So what do I do?”

            “Live with it, I’m afraid.”

            Red is so pleased with him that he kisses the man on the cheek. Wasim blushes at the gesture, then tells him how to get to the ferry.

 

Red slips onto a ferry that goes from Tangier to Gibraltar. He goes to the railing, in his boy’s clothes, with his little backpack on, and his short hair.

            The sea parts beneath them, churning up white. He is excited and apprehensive to return to Europe. The last time he was there—well. Things didn’t go so well.

            The upheaval in the Middle East will give him some cover. It’s an exodus. He will not fit in with the families all fleeing to Germany through the Balkans, through Hungary, but he will slip through their ranks. He will go east.

            Even though it is stupid and sentimental.

            “Excuse me son, I was wondering if—“

            Red looks up at the American accent in surprise. It’s a middle aged man in a shockingly bright shirt and shorts.

            He startles briefly at the sight of Red, then laughs. “Miss! Excuse me, miss, I was wondering if you speak any English.”

            “Yes,” Red says, and he loves this man too, even if he corrected himself.

            He sidles up next to Red with a pamphlet. “I’m wondering if you can explain any of this to me. I understand some Mexican, but I’m not great with the Spanish.”

            Red keeps his sharp tongue under wraps. “I am afraid I don’t speak any Spanish.”

            “Shoot.” He leans against the railing beside Red, and they both take in the view of the sea swiftly passing by. “What’s that accent you got there? Russian?”

            “Sokovian.”

            It takes him a moment, then his face lights up. “Sokovian. Like the Avengers?”

            _It was there before the Avengers. And it’s still there, now that they’re gone_.

            “Yes,” Red says. “Like the Avengers.”

           

He does not tarry in Gibraltar. Once he is off the ferry, he listens, and discovers someone who is heading for Madrid. It’s a young married couple from the western States. Red sidles up behind them and murmurs, “I’ll be going with you.”

            “Of course,” says the man.

            “Do you want the front seat?” asks the woman.

            Red sits in the back of their car. Actually, he lays across the back seat. They have a quilt there. He lays his head on it, watching the two of them chat back and forth. They’re enjoying their trip, are excited to head back to France. Red considers staying with them, because yes, he wants to go through France, he needs to, but their cheer, their comfort with one another, makes him uncomfortable.

            He tells himself that he’s just trying to be safe. That he wants to keep his interactions with people as brief as possible. That’s what is the smart thing to do.

            Really, though, it’s that every time the woman reaches out to stroke her husband’s arm, Red feels it like a paper cut.

            Every so often, one of them will look back and say, “You okay? Need anything?”

            “I’m fine,” he says, unsettled. Their kindness is not a thing he is forcing on them. He is not asking them to check on him.

            When they are deep into Madrid, Red says, “I will stop here.”

            The car pulls to the side of the street, and stops. The man smiles. “You sure we can’t take you any further?”

            Red nods, pulling on his bag. “Yes.”

            “Do you need anything before you go?” the woman asks. She holds back a granola bar. “In case you get hungry.”

            Red takes it. “Thank you.” He sighs, and says, “You will have no memory of me. But this…this day, right now…this is the happiest day of your lives.” The couple look at each other, and smile.

            Red slips out of the car, and closes the door. He’s a few feet away before he thinks, _shit_. He told them that this was the happiest day of their lives. They’ll never feel this happy again, no matter what.

            He turns back, wanting to amend the thought, but the car is already pulling away, and he sees the two of them laughing inside.

            Red sighs. Nothing he can do now. At least it was well intentioned.

            He tears open the granola bar and heads further into the city.

           

He sits outside the hotel on the curb. He’s in his jeans and just a t-shirt. The streets are busy around him. Apparently it’s the weekend, and there’s a sporting event of some kind. He hasn’t really paid attention.

            Red remembers again that this is the first time in his life he’s ever truly been on his own. He knows he should be able to handle it, but it frightens him.

            First he had his family. Then his brother. Then the Avengers. Then Steve and Sam.

            Now no one.

            He has no one. There is not a single person in the whole world who he could call for help. Not if he wants to stay free.

            He’s never been very social, but there’s always been someone there _if_ he truly need it. If he wanted to talk. Red’s so good at keeping his own council that it’s only now he realizes what a comfort a safety net would be.

            Swallowing, he rubs his hands up and down his shins, watching the revellers. Even if he wasn’t enhanced, he would have nothing in common with them. How many of them had spent most of their lives waiting for the bomb that would end it all?

            And even if they had, how many of them would know what it was like to live a life so—wrong?

            Red looks into the street, and asks himself what he’s doing. He’s going back to Sokovia. But why?

            _There’s nothing for you there._

_No._

_Then why?_

It was where he had spent almost his entire life. His time away was a dream compared to that. If he went back to Kamaj—Red brushes a hand over his shorn hair at the thought. He’ll probably be stoned. There will be those who understood. Then there will be those who had loved ones crushed to death.

            It was his job to stay at the drill. If he’d stayed at the drill, then maybe the others would have had more time. The debris wouldn’t have been so intense. Ashes falling on the city instead of meteorites of concrete and rock.

            _I could not have stayed at the drill_ , Red knows. _Even if I knew what would happen to everyone else. He_ killed _Pietro. I had no choice._

His own words come back to him. I make my own choices.

            Red hisses, then spits.

            So back to Sokovia, and then what? Happy ever after? He snorts. No. That’s not why he’s going home.

            He hears the voice. Not his brother. The other voice, rising from a memory. _Do you still wish that you had died_?

            Red stares at the asphalt. He thinks his answer may have changed.

            Then a strange miracle occurs. He actually hears the voice.

            Red lifts his head, finding the source at the same second he realizes that it’s not who he wishes it was. It comes from a little group of men not too far from him. The man speaking is slender, with curly dark hair. His back is to Red. He’s saying, “I don’t believe that to be true, no,” in a steady, smooth English accent.

            Red aches.

            He sees the light tremor in the man’s back, and sees him begin to shift. Red immediately turns back to the road, flushing. He didn’t mean to stare that hard.

            Part of him would like to tell the man to stay away when he walks over. He hasn’t made the man do this. He’s done it of his own accord, and Red ignores him at first. The man sits beside him, stretching his legs into the road. His long legs are clad in close fitting denim, his shoes spotlessly clean.

            At last, the man says, “What has you sitting here by yourself?”

            It’s not the right voice. There’s a low undercurrent of teasing and good humor, not tempered by uncertainty. He is not looking to make sure he said the right thing, checking Red’s reactions. He knows who he is, what he’s supposed to say.

            Red doesn’t say anything. He wants the man to go away. He wants him to stay.

            He wishes desperately that the man was someone else.

            The man doesn’t seem offended by his silence. “Not a fan of Madrid?”

            Red shrugs. “The—city is fine.”

            He laughs softly. “No—football. The game.”

            “Oh. I—do not care about this.”

            He’s smiling at Red. “Are you Russian?”

            Red finds himself saying, “Ukrainian.”

            He looks at the man. He is handsome. He’s not like the men that Red usually chooses for himself. The ones so much larger, as if to remind him of his frame, as if to reinforce that his body is wrong. This man is maybe four inches taller than him, and not much heavier than him either. He has a little beard neatly kept, and black eyes with wrinkles leading from them.

            _Laugh lines_ , Red remembers. _That’s what those are called_.

            “And what brings you here from Ukraine?”

            “Not the football,” Red answers, and the man laughs. He has a truly lovely smile.

            The man holds out his hand. “I’m Michael.”

            Red finds himself saying, “Svetlana.”

            It feels like an injury he’s done to himself. He is angrier at himself than he has been at anyone else in days.

            _They only mistook you for a boy_ , a little voice chides. _They saw you for what you are_.

            Red looks away, withdrawing his hand.

            “So,” Michael says, his voice softening. Like he can tell Red isn’t having a good night. “What’s your favourite thing about Madrid?” He leans ever so slightly closer. “If it’s not the football.”

            He wavers. Red wants it, and he knows it will be a punishment too. Cut off his hair, it doesn’t change a thing. One word, and he’s just reinforced everything that everyone sees when they look at him.

            So he lets himself be punished.

            He looks at the handsome man with the voice that is not Vision’s, and says, “I like that it is so easy to meet people.”

            He lies with his smile.

 

In bed later, Red gazes up at the hazy night sky through his window. There is a light across the street that keeps the room partially illuminated.

            He is laying on his back, Michael on his stomach. Michael’s arm is thrown across him. He is breathing steadily in and out. Sleeping.

            They are both naked. Red made himself take all his clothes off. He didn’t tell Michael to stop when he told Red how pretty he was, described all the feminine attributes of his body. All the while, Red felt like a punching bag, and every word and caress was a blow.

            He still came. He let the words blur together, and the voice was close enough that he could fool himself, if even for a moment. He’d closed his eyes, and he pictured the face of the man he truly wanted, the man he missed so terribly.

 

Red looked up, a bit perplexed by the sight.

            “You made popcorn,” he said.

            Vision opened his mouth, pausing like he understood that it was silly. “Yes.”

            He held it to down to Red, who took it into his lap with a smile. Vision sat beside him on the couch. He was wearing slacks and a black sweater. Red couldn’t tell if they were real, or if they were actually a part of him.

            Red looked at the massive bowl of popcorn. It filled his entire lap. It would have been enough for four people, possibly more.

            As if Vision understood, he said, “I haven’t quite mastered portions yet. It can be difficult when some of our colleagues have enhanced dietary requirements.”

            “This is good,” Red said, not wanting to discourage him. “It is fine. I will eat popcorn for the next four meals.”

            Vision smiled a little. He always understood when Red was joking. Red knew his delivery was dry. It was dry in Sokovian, let alone English, and people in the compound didn’t always understand when he was trying to tease. It was hard for Red too. Pietro was the only person he had ever teased. This was like trying to learn a new language.

            But Vision always knew when it was a joke.

            “I know you like popcorn,” he said, “when you watch movies.”

            “I do,” Red said, and Vision passed him the remote. Red turned the TV on, then paused. “Do—you want to pick?”

            He always picked. Vision would just automatically give him the remote.

            “Oh no,” he said, raising a hand. “No, whatever you choose is fine.”

            Red gave him a look, then shrugged. He’d really only been asking out of politeness. Tossing some popcorn in his mouth, he turned on the TV. It was larger than the wall in his old apartment in Kamaj.

            Everything here was big and clean and _available_. Red knew he would look like an idiot if he did nothing but constantly marvel, so he pretended that it was all ordinary. He convinced himself that it was all ordinary.

            Flipping through the guide, he chewed, and said, “We already watched _Smokey and the Bandit_ , yes?”

            “Indeed we did.”

            “We have not watched _Smokey and the Bandit II_ , though,” Red said, and picked that.

            After a moment, he glanced at Vision, who seemed amused. “I know you choose these because they are terrible.”

            “Terrible, no.” Red thought, then said, “Silly. I like them because they are silly.” He settled back, wrapping his arms around the popcorn, which had been drenched in butter. He wasn’t about to correct Vision about that either. They were supposed to be in constant training, watching what they ate. Red had spent most of his life skirting the edges of starvation. He would have all the butter he pleased. A thought occurred to him, and he said, trying not to show his worry, “Do you—not want to watch with me?”

            “This is fine,” Vision said. He leaned back against the couch, threading his fingers together. After a moment, his brow ever so slightly furrowed, he put his feet up on the coffee table.

            Red burst out laughing.

            Sheepish, Vision nodded. “Not me, is it.” He put his feet back on the floor.

            “Just relax.” Red reached down into the bowl. “You don’t have to do or be anything you aren’t when you are with me.”

            He was chewing when Vision asked, “Is that how you feel?”

            Red stopped a moment, then continued to chew.

            He felt Vision’s eyes on him. It was a familiar feeling. Vision often watched his face intently as either of them spoke. With the others, he seemed to understand when to look away. With Red—not so much. It used to bother him. Now it was simply familiar. “I do not only mean you. I’ve noticed that most humans are different people in different situations. They wear…many faces, I suppose. I’m afraid I only know how to wear the one.” Neither of them said anything a moment. “Do you feel that you need to be that way when you’re with me?”

            “No,” Red said, and at first he meant it. Then he remembered that Vision thought he was a girl, and he looked back at the bowl in his lap. He cleared his throat, then reached for his glass of water on the coffee table. The bowl in his lap prevented him from moving too far forward. He saw Vision about to reach for it, and instead let his powers spill out. The glass lifted off the table and into his hand. Red sat back, taking a sip. He glanced at Vision. “Do not tell Steve.”

            Vision nodded, then leaned over, saying confidentially, “I don’t know that Captain Rogers is one to talk. I saw him lift the fridge when a quarter went under it.”

            Red looked into his eyes. They were silver and yellow and the irises often moved in circles. If he focused, the yellow stretched outwards in lines. They were lovely. He smiled. Vision smiled back, and pulled away.

            They watched the movie awhile. The first one had been ridiculous, but this one was even more so. Red sunk into the cushions of this impossibly soft couch, cradling the bowl of popcorn and letting himself drift. These were some of his favourite times.

            No. No, this was his favourite time. The two of them, just…doing whatever it was that normal people would do. Despite the fact that they couldn’t exactly be called normal.

            _Or people_ , thought Red.

            Eventually, he became aware of the question. Red shifted, uncomfortable. There had been a question that radiated from Vision when they were alone together the last few times. Red didn’t know what it was. He didn’t like to look without permission. Especially not with Vision. They were friends.

            Or there was that something else. The something else he didn’t think was possible.

            He looked over. Vision was absently tapping his thumb against the side of his hand. It was such a human twitch.

            “What?” Red said.

            Surprised, Vision looked over. “Oh. Just thinking. Please, don’t let me distract you from the movie.”

            “I am already distracted, by your thinking. Tell me.”

            Red watched, a little unnerved, as Vision tried to work out what to say. It never took him so long to speak. He was so clever, the cleverest man that Red knew. He was the calmest person Red had ever known—everything around him would be chaos, and inside, Vision would be still. Sometimes, Red thought that he would was the only safe place to be.

            Finally, Vision said, “I would like to ask you something—but I’m afraid that it would hurt you.”

            Taken aback, Red shrugged. “I am not easily hurt.”

            “No. And yet that is not the same as being impervious to hurt.”

            Shrugging again, Red said, “Ask your question.”

            But he could have never anticipated when Vision said, “In Kamaj—on the street car—“

            Red’s insides went hard and cold. He stared at Vision, unable to breathe. They had never talked about this. He had told no one.

            Gazing at him, Vision said, “I came for you. When the city was falling. I picked you up. For a moment, you looked at me. And I looked at you. I began to fly us away. You said, ‘No.’”

            Red was there again. In his mind, he could see it. He could feel himself lifting off the ground as they plummeted to the Earth, even the remains of the murderer he had helped make. Everything in the car was lifting off the ground, and he had thought, _We will be together._

            But then arms had been around him, and he’d been looking into the same eyes he looked into now. It wasn’t until they had shot upwards from the bus that Red realized what was happening.

            The back of his neck prickled. He didn’t want to think about this. He didn’t want to think about any of this.

            “What is your question?” he asked bluntly.

            “My question is whether you still wish that you had died.”

            It took a great deal of edge off his anger. He stopped being in the other place. Instead, he was here. On this soft couch, with food to eat and lush green grass outside and his friend beside him.

            “Today I don’t,” Red murmured.

            Vision studied him a moment, then nodded. “If that changes, Wanda, will you let me know?”

            Red pulled away completely. He dug back into the popcorn bowl. “We can talk about that another time.”

            He felt Vision still watching him. “Sometimes you flinch when I say your name,” he said simply.    

            “ _That_ we will not discuss,” Red said.

            Vision nodded, and let him be, turning his gaze to the screen.

            Red pushed kernels into his mouth. _Do I wish I had died?_

 _Not today. But I wish I had the courage to tell you my real name_.

 

Michael stirs beside him, the memory slipping away like a hand swiping through dish water. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs.

            His hand moves upwards, cupping Red’s right breast. Red looks down at it. The thumb that lazily circles his nipple even as Michael drifts back into unconsciousness.

            Intellectually, he can tell that this piece of flesh was well formed. It is the same size as the other. Not too big, not too small. The nipples are pinkish, the skin pale.

            He loathes them.

            The absence between his legs—he can live with that. Somehow, he feels that if he must, he can live with that. But these things—these things that curve on his chest and basically scream to the world _female_ are no longer bearable.

            Not for the first time, Red lifts his hands, and cocking his fingers, uses his powers to push them down. They squash against him, making it hard to breathe. The fat just squeezes down to the sides.

            He gives up with a miserable sigh.

            _Am I going home to die?_

He doesn’t know.

            One thing he is certain of, though. He is not going home like this.

 

He makes his way to Cannes. He knows that’s where they have that big movie festival. It must be a place where celebrities go. That means doctors.

            Or at least, the kind of doctors he needs.

            He crosses southern France in an afternoon, and not because he’s coerced anyone. He met a French grandmother in Pamplona who was about to head home to Nice. It’s another stroke of luck. By now, Red had thought he would be in some SHIELD prison or a basement in Wakanda. He doesn’t know how he’s doing it.

            He knows his luck won’t hold. Eventually, something terrible will happen.

            He’s very aware that Cannes might be where it happens. It is an awful risk he’s taking.

            It’s a risk he can no longer put off.

 

The internet is a beautiful, horrifying thing. It gives you so much information.

            Red shows up on the surgeon’s doorstep thanks to the internet. He has looked for the best, and this woman is the best. Also, she speaks English. He knows that from the articles he’s read about her.

            She shows up, looking displeased, speaking in French, and Red hits her with a red thread. The woman relaxes, and Red says, “English.”

            The doctor asks, “How may I help you?”

            “I need an operation.”

            The woman steps back, opening the door. “Would you like to come in? We can discuss it for a few minutes, but I’m afraid I have a procedure scheduled in three hours.”

            “You will cancel it,” Red says, stepping past her.

            “Yes,” the woman says, shutting the door, “I’ll have to cancel that.”

 

Red cannot help but feel a grim little rush of fright on the operating table. The last time he was somewhere like this, it was a HYDRA base. And what followed was less than pleasant.

            “How are you doing?” asks one of the nurses. Her name is Yvonne. She has been very nice.

            Red nods. He cannot think of what to say.

            She rubs his arm. “Everything is going to be just fine. Everyone gets nervous.”

            Red swallows. “If something goes wrong—“

            “Shh.”

            “If something goes wrong, don’t call anyone. Don’t—there’s no one. There’s no one to come for me. And that’s all right.”

            “Your friend is waiting for you. Don’t worry.”

            Red sighs. They think a blond woman named Therese is sitting in the hospital waiting room. They also think they’ve been transferred a great many euros.

            He is alone here.

            He tries to remember the sound of his brother’s voice. He tries to conjure it up, because it would be a comfort. Right now, he is desperate for some comfort.

            Only he can’t make it work. He can’t even picture his brother’s face. Red squeezes his eyes shut.

            Some tells him to start counting back from ten. Red inhales a deep breath, trembling. One of the nurses tells him that everything will be okay.

            “Ten,” he whispers. “Nine…eight….”

            His lips begin to form the next word, but no sound comes out. Red flutters, and goes away.

 

An hour after he wakes, he is able to sit up by himself. The world spins, but momentarily.

            Red is groggy from the drugs, but still—lucid. He looks down at himself. He feels like nothing but white padding. It is a little hard to breathe.

            He laughs. He claps his hands a few times. A nurse comes in to check in on him, but turns and leaves immediately because Red wants her to.

            He holds the sides of the bed, letting his head drop with satisfaction.

            “This, Pietro,” he murmurs. “This is what I’m going to do about it.”

           

Less than twenty four hours later, he is in a car crossing into Italy. Every bump and jostle hurts, and hurts terribly.

            But he has to get home, and he fears that time is running out.

 

 


	4. This is Where My Troubles Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter has some frank, but brief, depictions of a body post surgery. Oh, and violence, but I think most people are more used to the latter than the former.

It’s when he arrives in Slovenia that his problems finally begin.

            He took a week making his way across Italy. It hurt too much to travel for more than a few hours a day. Once he makes the crossing, it’s a couple hours to Ljubljana.

            He ends up in what might be the worst neighbourhood in what looks otherwise like a beautiful, idyllic city. Red finds the first doctor he can. The man can’t speak English and Red speaks no Slovene, but Red doesn’t need language to make the doctor understand what he needs. The bandages come off, and he’s too frightened to look. The doctor clucks a little—Red doesn’t know why—and goes about removing the stitches.        

            Then he rips the drain out from under Red’s left arm.

            He hollers, hands and eyes lighting up crimson. “Ah,” he hisses. “Fuck, you must be….”

            The doctor looks at him with big eyes, and Red gives him a light shot, just to keep him pliant. Red smacks his head back against the bed a few times. He didn’t know what he thought he should expect. The man has a black toupee over what was obviously once red hair.

            A few moments pass, and Red steels himself. He lifts his right arm. “Do it.”

            The second one doesn’t hurt any less.

            Red is still too afraid to look when the doctor is done. He just pulls on his shirt, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of fabric against his flat chest, and flees.

 

He’s walking down the street twenty minutes later, wincing at the discomfort. He is sore. He knows he is going to have to look.

            And yes, he’s happy. He’s happy about what he’s done.

            But God, did he really have to do it when he was trying to run across Europe?

            _Yes_ , the answer comes.

            _Says you_ , Red serves back.

            He hears Sokovian. Red comes up short, and stares across the street.

            There’s a little café. The White Hare. Named after the myth.

            Red feels gut shot at the sight of it. Two men sit at a little table outside, chatting back and forth. Music drifts out the open front door. It’s Camilla Terinoff. Music his grandmother would have listened to. Yes. Red has not heard this song in twenty years, not since sitting on the floor of his grandmother’s apartment while the records played.

            Without looking, he grabs a young woman passing by, and says, “Give me all of your money.” He waits while the girl pulls out a wallet, and grabs the cash out of her hand. “Go. Go away.”

            Red stuffs the money into his back pocket, and crosses the quiet street. The two men outside look at him curiously, and one gives him a nod. Red nods back, and steps inside.

            It’s like he’s moved backwards through his own timeline. He worked in a place like this. The scent of thick Sokovian coffee. The red cloth on the tables. The flag above the cash register. His mouth fills with saliva, and he realizes he must look a fool.

            So he goes and sits down by the wall. Gingerly, he lets his bag fall off his one shoulder. He hasn’t been able to put it over both since the surgery. For the next three weeks, he can’t carry more than ten pounds. That’s fine. He doesn’t think his belongings weigh more than five.

            The waitress comes over. Before she can speak, Red says in a small voice, almost hopefully, “Njita?”

            Hello. The waitress smiles. She looks Sokovian, just like he does. The big eyes, the high cheekbones. But her clothes are pale colours, and she wears no jewelry, and keeps her hair pinned up. Basically the opposite of how Red would always present himself.

            “Hello,” the young woman says, and Red cannot remember the last time someone spoke to him in his own tongue. He forced Pietro to speak English for so many years, but this—this is home in a single word. “What can I get for you today? Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

            He hasn’t. Red glances at it, then he remembers. “Archakh? Do you have that?”

            “We do. Best outside of Sokovia.”

            “I will have that. And coffee.”

            “Right away,” the girl smiles, and leaves him be. Red glances around. There are another two men, closer to his age, on the other side of the café. The one gives him a look. Red turns his eyes, and gazes out the window.

            It sounds like home. It looks like home. It _smells_ like home.

            He’s been trying to get back to Sokovia because he doesn’t know where else he could possibly go. Now he realizes that he craves it. He has been away for years now.

            How could he have missed Kamaj? Part of him is astonished by that. The city was ugly. He had always known that. There were precious few trees in the city, just concrete. Old Soviet statues no one had bothered tearing down after the wall fell. He’d spent his time there expecting to die. All the worst memories of his life were in that place. His father. His mother. His brother. All dead and buried in Sokovia.

            And yet….

            He could see the mountains. He could remember opening the curtains of their apartment and seeing the rain come down in sheets, washing everything clean. He could remember how every year they would all thread flowers through the gate outside the church.

            The church. Where Ultron summoned them. The church where half of Red died.

            He props his head up, rubbing his hand over his short hair. He can already tell that it’s grown.

            _Will I have time for anything else? Is this all there will be? Short hair, and no things on my chest, and clothes that aren’t even the colours I like? Being mistaken once or twice more for who and what I really am?_

            _Is that all the man that I am allowed to be before I die?_

            They will come for him in Sokovia. Who? Everyone. But Red will still go. He wants to be home again. And if he dies, he will do it where he can be buried near his brother.

            Leaning against the wall, he breathes in the old familiar scents. He listens to the old familiar songs. He allows himself to stop rushing.

            He knows what he’s going to do. He’s going home to die.

 

He lifts his head when the bowl is placed in front of him. “Archakh.”

            “Yes, thank you.”

            “How is your coffee?”

            “Perfect. Thank you.” It _is_ perfect, for the first time since he left home. The Americans make coffee so weak that the first time Red had it he thought the machine had broken.

            He picks up his spoon, looking into the bowl of dark red. The smell rising from it makes his stomach flop with hunger. Making himself take it slow, he brings a spoonful to his lips.

            His eyes close. Oh God. This—this is happiness. This is pure, unadulterated happiness.

            Only it isn’t. It is archakh, yes. And it is very, very good. But it isn’t what he wants.

            “Is it—“ He startles, and the waitress puts her hands up, blushing. He thought she’d left. “I’m sorry. Is it okay?”

            “It’s fine.”

            “It looked like you didn’t think that a second ago.”

            Red gives a little smile, pointing to the dish with his spoon. “No. It’s very good. Thank you.” He turns back to the bowl, and eats, dismissing her.

            He’s tired. He’ll stay here the night. Finish his food—all of it—and go to bed on a full stomach, and a plan. It’s going to get harder from here out. After he leaves the country, he’s basically cutting right across the path of all the refugees fleeing from the south. He’ll need to swing upwards through Austria, get to that place between the Czech Republic and Slovakia. He’s not going to just be able to get in cars and go for hours at a time. A lot of this might be on foot.

            But his feet are tired and he’s tired and part of him wonders if he should just try to get on an airplane and be done with it.

            Letting out a soft snort, he pictures it. The second he got on an airplane to Sokovia, it’s like an international siren would set off. Last remaining Maximoff twin, up for grabs. Only surviving member of HYDRA’s experiments, come and get it. He wants to actually walk on Sokovian soil, not just be grabbed the second he’s off the plane and have a bag thrown over his head.

            _They can shoot me in the back of the head, so long as I get to see the mountains._

He knows that’s not how it will happen. They’ll try to take him alive. He’ll have to do it himself.

            The chair across from him is pulled out. One of the men from across the café sits down. It isn’t just physical characteristics that Red can recognize as Sokovian. It’s a certain look in the eye. There’s a deadness there. Some have it more than others.

            This man has it to his marrow.

            “Witch,” he says.

            Red lowers his spoon into the bowl. He looks back slightly as the other man, a brunette, takes a seat behind him. Taking a deep breath, he looks into the empty eyes of the man across the table from him. He’s blond and he’s Red’s age but his face is already lined.

            His hands are under the table. Red knows he has something there.

            Shaking his head, Red says softly, “Don’t do something that we’re all going to regret.”

            “I won’t regret cutting your throat,” the man replies easily. “Not in the least. Go back behind the counter, Mila.”

            Red hears the waitress ask shakily, “What’s going on?”

            Nodding at Red, the man says, “Don’t you recognize her?” He sighs a little in disgust. “Did you think that’s all it would take? Cut off your hair, and no one would know who you are? What you are?”

            Red gazes at him, unblinking. He doesn’t have to make any apologies to this man. If he apologized to every person he ever hurt, he’d die of old age long before he could finish.

            The man behind him says, “Don’t you recognize her, Mila? It’s the Scarlet Witch.”

            The name sends pin pricks all up and down the back of his neck. He closes his eyes briefly.

            Of course the blonde picks up on it. “What? You don’t like that name?”

            Red doesn’t reply. He aches. He wants to sleep. If this becomes a big production, he’s going to have to run out of town at top speed instead of getting a decent night’s sleep. He’s had to sleep on his back for a week. He was looking forward to curling up in a bed, like a real person.

            “You know,” the man says, “I saw him.” He reaches out, picking up the salt. He unscrews the lid. “Your brother.”

            Red stares at him.

            “In Kamaj,” the man continues. He reaches out, and starts to slowly pour salt into the soup. “There’s robots flying all over the sky. Buildings blowing up all around me. I’m climbing over bodies to try and get out of the bus after that huge green thing threw it out of the way to get at those metal men. Just threw us, like we’re nothing. I climb out and—zip zip zip.” He traces a finger through the air. “Along comes your brother. And he gave that big green monster a nice big thumbs up. Good job on getting all those robots. Never mind the dozen people who were just crushed to death in a bus, while we’re fucking flying through the sky.”

            He finishes dumping out the salt, and taps his finger on the bottom a few times to get out the last grains. He picks the cap back up, screwing it on.

            Shrugging, he puts the empty container back in place. “So—when I heard that he was the only one of you freaks who got killed—I was a happy, _happy_ man.”

            The other man strokes the back of his neck, and Red snaps.

            He throws his elbow back, and the blonde is lunging forward with a knife. Red snatches his hand back just in time. The knife lodges in the table where his hand was.

            Then the brunette grabs him around the chest, trying to hold him still, right around where Red has been cut open.

            Pain floods in, and Red doesn’t snap, he explodes. His power booms outwards in a short, sharp crimson shockwave, sending them both flying back from him and tables through the air.

            Red is reacting, gathering up energy between his hands, and he spins. He sends it rocketing into the brunette’s middle, sending him crashing all the way through the kitchen doors.

            When he turns, he throws out a hand, stopping the blonde in his tracks. The man gasps, fist clenched around his knife. Red is trembling, and threads of luminescence are radiating from him, surrounding the two of them.

            Red whispers, “He died saving the city.” He lifts the man onto the tips of his toes, and the blonde begins to choke. “He died—saving a little _boy_.”

            The blonde is turning red. But still he spits out, “Fuck him.”

            Red throws him through the window.

            The man smashes through, toppling the two men sitting outside. They all fall in a clatter of glass and blood and broken furniture.

            Red strides forward, energy accumulating in his hands. He floats up over the frame, letting himself down, prepared to pummel this man. The blonde is on the ground, groaning. He coughs, and tries to get up.

            Red grabs him by the throat, in his actual small hand, and squeezes. “My brother,” he hisses, “was a _hero_ —“

            He feels something give under his grip.

            Immediately, he lets go. The man doesn’t stop choking. In fact, he’s choking harder than he was before. He’s grabbing his throat, eyes bulging and feet kicking the ground.

            Red steps back. “Oh God,” he whispers.

            He turns and jumps back into the café. He grabs his bag, and the only reason he returns for it is because the necklace is inside. Then he runs out through the front door. He gets a few blocks away, before jumping into a car and demanding the driver take him away. He tells him to drive so fast that he’s afraid they’ll both be killed, but he can’t get his heart to stop racing and somehow he knows it won’t until he’s far, far away from this place.

 

He doesn’t stop for two days. By the time he does, he’s in territory where the cars have to stop repeatedly to let bedraggled families cross the road, all they own on their backs. If he wasn’t so afraid for himself, he might stop to notice the tears on their faces, to see that they had lost family the way he lost family.

            He doesn’t notice. He’s not slept since before he arrived in Ljubljana, and he can barely keep a hold on the driver. They arrive in town, and Red almost falls out of the car. He stops long enough to say, “Forget me—if you ever remember I existed, you die,” then slams the door after himself.

            He’s in an old neighbourhood. The walls are pocked, and the feral cats are everywhere. It’s late, and he is so exhausted that he can barely hear a thing.

            Red pulls himself up to the nearest doorway and knocks. There’s light coming through the cracks. He knows someone is home. When no one comes, he knocks again.

            Eventually an old irritated voice says something. He doesn’t know the language. If he even knows what it is, he can’t identify it. He thinks he’s in Hungary, but he can’t be sure. The only instructions he gave the drivers were ‘east.’ He was supposed to go northeast, but in the moment he just needed to _leave_.

            Red puts his hands to the door and releases his will. “Let me in.”

            Nothing happens. The woman speaks again, sounding just as annoyed.

            He’s drained. He hasn’t slept or eaten in days. He can’t just rely on his powers to get him through this door.

            So—and it’s not a stretch—he crumples up his face and says desperately, “Please—please help me.”

            He waits, and when nothing happens, he fakes a sob. It sounds convincingly genuine and female.

            When the door cracks open for him, Red doesn’t take the chance. He grabs the woman by the throat. She’s even shorter than him, and not even a hundred pounds. A tiny old woman with a headscarf and improbably more wrinkles on her face than years.

            He puts all he has left into the effort, letting himself go scarlet. “You will let me stay. You will feed me. You will not let anyone know I’m here.”

            “Igen,” the woman replies, and Red lets her go. He steps inside, closing the door after himself. The old woman looks at his boots and hisses. They’re filthy. Red sighs. He pushes out of them, leaving them by the door, then follows the woman into the small home.

            She lives alone. There are pictures on the walls of family, but it smells like the home of someone who has visitors rarely, who is supremely used to her own company. Pointing to the little couch, the woman natters, and Red gets the idea. That’s where he’ll sleep. He’s managed to get the woman’s agreement to let him stay, but he hasn’t been able to force her to like it.

            That’s fine. Right now—he could use a little disdain. Or a ton.

            Red goes to put his things down, but the old woman starts to smack at him. Red is about to hit her back, without the energy for much else, when he realizes she’s pulling at his dirty clothes. Yes. He had to walk for about four hours on the road in the rain. He is covered in dried mud.

            “Fine,” he says. “Fine.”

            He lets her lead him to the tiny bathroom. The woman holds out her hands for something, then snaps her fingers a few times, scolding him. Red doesn’t get it. Until he does. Screw it. What does he care? Once he’s had enough sleep, he’ll make sure she has no memory of him.

            With a wince, he shoulders out of his jacket, putting it on her outstretched arms. He tugs off one sock, then the other. Standing back up, he strips his shirt over his head.

            The woman lets out a yelp, then a string of words. “What?” Red says. He glances down at himself for the first time since the bandages came off and he feels the blood drop from his face. Unable to blink, he whispers, “Fuck.”

            His scars are purple red, bulging angrily. It’s shocking to see the absence of the things he hated for so long, but that’s not the real shock. His nipples have gone _black_.

            Red spins, looking into the mirror. He sees himself, only he’s looking at a stranger. He’s looking at a muddy young man with sunken eyes and dirty hair sticking up all over the place, and with a truly alarming looking chest.

            “Oh God,” he says. It was not supposed to be like this. Something has gone wrong.

            He lets the old woman take the shirt from his hands, and she’s pulling him down to sit on the toilet, which is a dusty pink. Her touch has gone gentle. Red is frightened. He remembers abruptly that he was supposed to use lotion after the bandages came off. He was supposed to look after himself. But he’s been so—so crazy. He couldn’t think about himself.

            All he could think about was the way the man’s throat had given way beneath his hand.

            Now he thinks of words like ‘necrosis’ and wonders what shape he’ll really be in when he gets to Sokovia.

            He lifts his arms feebly, letting the old woman tug off the dirty bandages that cover where the drains had gone in. He was supposed to have changed those too. God, he has made a spectacular fuck up of this entire thing.

            The old woman wets a cloth in the sink, and hiking her skirt up, starts going awkwardly to her knees. “No,” Red says, “no, you don’t have to—“

            The woman lets loose more words on him, settling on her bony knees. She waves away Red’s hands more than once. He gives up, and lets her clean him off.

            After a minute, she gives him the cloth, motioning. He puts it in the sink, cleaning it off. The water sluices off the cloth all brown, and Red grimaces. Spectacular fuck up.

            A few minutes pass of the woman thoroughly cleaning Red’s chest off, but she doesn’t hurt him, not once. His chest is tender, but she’s careful of him.

            When she gets to her feet, he tries to offer his hand, but she just slaps at his hands again. She is stubbornly independent. This he understands to the core. If he weren’t on the verge of collapse, there would be no way he’d let her do this.

            There is an old fashioned bath tub, the kind that has feet. The woman fills it up while Red wavers on the toilet, half asleep. For a moment, he’s not even here. He’s on the other side of the world. He’s reaching out for grey and yellow eyes, with irises in motion. He’s being reached for.

            Then the woman is smacking him on the arm, and Red jostles awake from his doze. “Yes, yes,” he mutters. He gets to his feet, and sheds the rest of his clothes. He’s too tired for shame. He holds them out, and the woman takes them. The old woman holds out a hand, and Red takes it automatically. Faintly, he’s shocked by how strong the woman is. But he remembers his grandmother, how much strength she held in that small body, and he’s really not that surprised.

            Climbing into the tub, Red sits down. He remembers something about not taking baths, not so soon after surgery, but at this point he’s broken all the rules. It’s not like he intends on living out the week anyway. So he slides down, checking the woman’s face to see if he’s doing what he’s supposed to. She nods, and leaves him alone, the door open.

            Red falls asleep in seconds.

 

He inhales the food he is given after the old woman wakes him. It is soup—cabbage—and strong with some kind of flavour that tastes vaguely of home. Red has two servings, bent close to the bowl and pushing spoonful after spoonful into his mouth.

            When he finishes, he’s gets up to go to the living room, but the old woman leads him to the bedroom. The sheets have been pulled down for him. “No,” Red says. “I can sleep on the—“

            But she pushes him forward, insistent, and Red gets on the bed. He sits down, feeling the mattress bow under his slight weight.

            Before he can lay down, the woman sits beside him. She tugs on the bottom of his shirt. Red is dressed in clothes that obviously once belonged to a teenage boy. He has rolled up the track pants at the bottom, but the small t-shirt with the words ACDC fits him perfectly. He knows what ACDC is because of Stark. Red pulls up the shirt, embarrassed now to be seen like this.

            The old woman is unfazed. She takes a jar of something from beside the bed, opening it up. Red frowns at the smell, but doesn’t argue when the woman takes out a gob and smears it over his incisions and nipples. He closes his eyes at the sensation. Oh—saints save us, that feels amazing.

            When she finishes, she pats Red’s side. He pulls down the shirt, a little discomfited.

            “Why are you being so nice?” he asks. “I’m not making you. And you don’t want me here.”

            He’s tired, but there’s obviously just enough of his power left to make the question understood. Or maybe that’s not what it is. Maybe they don’t need language.

            She hesitates, then reaches for the buttons of her shirt. Red pulls his head back a little, perplexed. The old woman undoes half the buttons on her shirt, then parts it on the right side. Her skin is filled with line after line, time doing its work, but there still is no way to miss the scar across her chest, the flatness, the absence of a nipple.

            Red nods, and the woman covers herself. She prompts him to lay down, and he does. But when she gets up, he makes a little sound in his throat. The woman pauses. Red frowns. No. That isn’t who he is. He doesn’t ask for comfort, he doesn’t ask for….

            _It’s the end of days. Who will know_?

            Without being asked, the old woman settles down again. She reaches out, brushing the hair from his forehead. She looks at him like she sees someone else. That’s fine. He closes his eyes and pretends this is his grandmother.

            She sings him to sleep.

 

In his dream, he is laying down to sleep. Only he’s not alone in the bed.

            Arms hold him close. He does not smell like anyone else. Red noticed that early on. There is the subtle sharpness of metal and chemicals, and perhaps it should be off-putting. Only it’s not. There is no one else like him.

            “I will keep you safe,” the voice whispers in his ear.

            It is as heartbreaking a thing as he can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, on the off chance that I've picked up a reader who's considering bilateral mammoplasty with free nipple graft (or top surgery, if you want to be pithy about it) and who after reading this chapter is going, "Fuck no, I changed my mind," I want to make two things clear, and this might be more graphic than anything in this chapter, so brace yourself or skip it:  
> 1) It does not hurt to get the drains taken out. I had a friend with a horror story, and the doctor I described was based on this old pervert at a walk-in clinic I went to when I was a student, but getting drains taken out is one of the easiest parts of surgery, and nobody's going to go ripping them out. It does not hurt if the person removing them is competent, and trust me, that's going to be basically everyone, unless you have a doctor dumb enough to wear a red toupee over black hair. And realistically, it would be the nurse doing the removal.  
> 2) Yes, nipples look black right after the bandages come off. This isn't because the graft hasn't taken, it's because they're in desperate need of moisturizing after a week under a bandage, so do not freak out. It looks scary, but it's really not. It is just a scab. Just use all the lotion and within two days the scab will start to come off and you'll have regular looking nipples again.  
> Too much information? Well, I warned you at the top of the note, and I want to make sure I'm not scaring the daylights out of some poor transkid. Red's just done this without really thinking about it, and he's put an end date on his own life, so he's not that concerned about following doctor's orders too closely. In real life, though, if you follow doctor's orders, post surgery is pretty easy, and the results are a hundred percent worth it.  
> If you're still reading at this point, well done. I salute your fortitude. And if the post surgery bit made you queasy, I promise, that's the end of it. Well--there's one brief mention. But stick with me!  
> Anyways, all my love, fellow nerds.


	5. The Absurdity of Life

There’s nothing for it. He has to go through.

            Red stands on the edges of the riot. It’s familiar. Riots always feel familiar to him.

            This one is a little less clear cut than those of his youth. It would be easy to say it’s the white ones against the brown ones, but there’s also police in the mix. And it would be easy if he could say that they’re on the side of justice, but that would be naïve. He sees police using batons on the refugees, and he sees others trying to pull the men who live here off of women who are just trying to flee from death.

            He blows out a breath.

            There is one road out of this place. He is so close to the Carpathians. He is _so close_ and he knows that means time is even shorter. They’ll be there. They will be waiting for him.

            He needs to get there, he needs to see it—he needs to see for himself—and then they will be together.

            The whole city is seizing. Two hundred thousand people in a powder keg for months, and God knows how many more refugees flooding through, and they have to go and explode the day he arrives in town.

            Because of course they do.

            Red takes in a deep breath. He is worn ragged. Not even his one night reprieve was enough to really rejuvenate him. He had a moment of happiness—that sweet dream where he had been held, where the man he wanted was with him—but it had swiftly degenerated into a nightmare with bulging blue eyes, a man gasping beneath his hand.

            Now when Red closes his eyes, it is all he sees.

              _Just do it._

            What does that mean? Do whatever he has to to get through? Should he kill people? Should he let himself be seen? What is he supposed to do?

            He needs to get home. How many more people is he going to hurt in the process?

            Red realizes with surprisingly little to-do that he really doesn’t care. The faces of his sins will only haunt him so much longer. Then he will be with Pietro, and everything will go dark forever.

            So he walks forward into the melee.

            He keeps his head down, willing himself not to be seen. A faint red shimmer appears around his body as he walks. _I am not here. I am not here. I am not here_.

            He will make his way through the mountains to the place that is special to none save those who love it. The place that is nowhere important, on the way to more important places. The place that can never truly rebuild, because it is doomed to be destroyed, again and again and again.

            Red will go home, to the place he helped break into a million pieces. It has never been lost on him that the place he fought so hard to protect took its greatest blow because of him.

            “Bábák,” someone says.

            He slows, turning his head. A middle aged man is staring at him in the middle of the fight. The world moves around them both, but the man has frozen in place.

            “Piros bábák!” he screams.

            Red doesn’t know a lot of Hungarian, but he knows _exactly_ what that means. So he runs.

            He cannot run fast. He knows this. When they were enhanced, what was really special about them came to the forefront. Pietro was fast, and it made sense that his special thing was that he was the _fastest_. Maybe in the whole world. Red never knew for sure, but he liked to think so. And he never had to run, because Pietro would just pick him up, like he weighed little more than a feather, and they’d travel so fast that Red threw up the first few times. He didn’t have to run, because Pietro ran for him. “We will share,” he grinned.            

            Red’s special thing—well, he was just good at hitting you where it really hurt. Whether that was inside or outside.

            He can hear the man behind him, yelling the words over and over again. Piros bábák! Piros bábák! He hears the man gaining on him, and hopes like hell someone clobbers him with a baton or a brick before he can reach Red.

            But he’s getting closer.

            _Just do it_.

            Red spins around, in a crackle of light and energy and colour, and blasts the man backwards twenty feet.

            Like that, the riot freezes.

            It’s not a magic trick. It’s not like time has stopped. Everyone just goes still, because what they were doing is familiar. They know how to beat each other with their fists, their weapons. They know what’s supposed to happen here.

            Something like Red is not familiar.

            He sees all the eyes turn to him, and hears the words rolling out of dozens of minds. Piros bábák. Sahirat alqrmuzy. It all means the same thing, and he feels their fear.

            It’s gone from being a situation with shades of grey to one that is extremely binary. There are two sides: everybody else—and then him.

            Someone screams, “Piros bábák—“ and Red reacts before anyone can do anything.

            He sends out as strong a shockwave as he can, sending dozens of rioters flying back from him. Then he does the only other thing he can think of.

            He flies.

            Red doesn’t like to do this. In fact, he hates it. He’s awkward at it, and parts the air like a missile that doesn’t quite have a guidance system. Dropping off a building and floating to the ground is very different than having to travel like this. If he flies, people look up, and they see him, but he needs to get as far from this place as fast as he can.

            He spins and bobs as he fights to control his path. Red can manipulate other objects, yes, but his own body is something that he’s never quite mastered. He’s not like Vision, who was floating through the air about five seconds after his creation.

            He tries to remember what Vision told him in practice once. “Simply put your eyes on where you mean to go, and go there. Don’t think about it. You don’t think about breathing, and yet you still accomplish it, because you must. Flying is like that.”

            Red makes himself focus on building in the distance. It has a green roof. _Get there_ , he tells himself. _Get there and don’t worry about any further._

            He doesn’t like going at these speeds. When Pietro would pick him up and carry him, he’d have to press his face to his brother’s chest and hide his face. Red’s not going anywhere near as fast as Pietro could; really he’s only going about as fast as a car on a highway. But his face is exposed to the wind, and he _hates_ this.

            He keeps his eyes on the green roof, and occasionally he hears a cry below him, but for the most part he thinks the city is too busy trying to tear itself apart to notice him.

            He thinks that until he’s shot.

            It goes straight through his left side, and happens so quickly that Red doesn’t even notice for a few seconds. But his body notices, and he drops to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

            At the last second, he puts out a hand, catching himself before he can strike the sidewalk. He lets himself go, and falls the last six inches, barking at the thud. Red lays there, watching the group of men across the street. They’re so busy kicking a Muslim man to death that they haven’t noticed him fall from the sky.

            Red reaches down, touching the blood coming out of his body. It’s just above his hip. It’s spilling blood out, but it’s not bad. He can tell. He’s seen worse wounds than this. Hell, his black nipples scare him a lot more than this does.

            He sits up, dazed, and looks around. They’re the only ones on the street. Everyone has either gone to another place to rage, or they’re hiding inside and pretending none of this is happening.

            Red looks across the road. It’s five young men, three of them with shaved heads. They’re stomping on the man, who is curled into a ball, trying desperately to protect his head.

            “Hey,” Red says.

            They don’t hear him.

            With a sigh, Red lifts both his hands. He lets loose at them a thought: _You are the enemy_.

            They all stop. They look at each other a moment, then one throws a punch at the other.

            Red watches with disinterest as they move away from the man on the ground. They claw and tear at each other, using teeth and fists and boots.

            The man on the ground raises his head after a moment. His lip is split open, and his eye is swollen shut. He looks at the group of men, perplexed and frightened. They’re too busy trying to kill one another. His eye finds Red.

            Red pushes himself up, and wobbles across the street. He offers a hand to the man, who accepts, and pulls him into a seated position with a groan. Red drops down beside him, a hand to the leaking wound in his side.

            For a little while, they watch the young men trying to murder one another. Then the man reaches inside his jacket. He hisses, because he’s working with a few broken fingers. He pulls out a rag. Very carefully, he unrolls it. Inside is one cigarette, and a lighter. The man puts it to his mouth, then tries to pick up the lighter. When that fails, he looks to Red with a sigh.

            Red takes the lighter, flicking it open. The man bends his head, and Red shelters the flame with his hand. Smoke puffs out of the man’s mouth, and he sits back, giving Red a grateful nod.

            He watches the young men a moment—one’s fallen, another is biting into the neck of one of his fellows—then holds the cigarette out to Red. He’s never had a cigarette in his life, but he takes it. At this point—with a bullet wound and probably necrotic tissue on his chest—what exactly does he have to lose?

            Red puts it to his lips, and inhales. It burns his lungs, but he takes it in. Turning his head away from the both of them, he blows out the smoke. Not bad.

            Nodding, he gives it back to the man with the broken fingers. They watch the brawl, sharing the man’s last cigarette back and forth, and at one point the man says a single word that Red doesn’t quite catch, but he understand the meaning behind it. The absurdity of life.

            “Yes,” Red says, and wipes his blood off on the sidewalk.

           

He sees himself on the news, and lets out a sigh. He is laying on his back in a boxing gym. An old man is grimly sewing up his side. The TV is on behind him.

            Maybe he can’t speak Hungarian, but he sure as hell knows what it means when grainy cell phone footage of him flying across the city is the first story. Not that an entire city went insane and plunged into a race riot.

            His English is in perfect working order, and he recognizes the middle aged man with the receding hairline and heavy blonde mustache who says, “We can confirm at this time that Wanda Maximoff is in Hungary, and we wish to ensure its citizens that we will do everything possible to apprehend her in the coming days.”

            “Secretary—does it appear she’s trying to get to Sokovia?”

            “That’s one interpretation of events we’re considering.”

            Red is in Romania. He has swung north, because so far he’s travelled in a straight line.

            But he can’t take the road to Sokovia. They know he’s coming, they know what route he’ll take.

            So instead he’ll have to go over the mountains.

            He looks at the old man, who Red is fairly certain is currently sewing up his side with regular cloth thread.

            “Vodka?” Red asks.

            The man holds up a bottle without breaking his stride. Red has a gulp. It’s not vodka, but it’ll do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks,   
> I know that literally every person who posts something asks for this, but if you're digging the story, I would love to hear from you. It's the first time I've posted any of my fiction online for anyone to read, and it's vaguely terrifying (two words you wouldn't think would mix but somehow do). If you drop me a kudos or comment, my heart might explode from happiness, or at least relief.   
> That being said, to everyone who has read so far, or will read, whether you say anything about it or not, I really do appreciate that you've taken the time to get this far in the story.   
> With all the love in my black heart,   
> Sebastian


	6. I Call and You Don't Answer

He knows the second he has crossed the border.

            Yes, Red knows that borders are made up things. They are lines conjured by humans. Sometimes it is a river or a landmark that creates a natural delineation, but more often than not it is just humans sitting down with a map and saying, “That’s you, and this is me, and this is where we part.” It’s so callous and disruptive that it’s a little terrifying, and he knows academically that there’s really nothing that separates this country from that country, nothing that makes the land he was on a minute ago any different from the land he stands on now.

            Nonetheless—he knows as soon as he steps onto Sokovian soil.

            He goes a few steps further, just to be sure. It’s cold, but he is below the snowline. He’s bundled up in his jacket, and he wears two pairs of pants. His hands are in mittens that are a little too big, but they were all he could find before he threw himself at the Carpathians like they were a slow rise instead of a mountain range.

            Red sinks to his knees. He tugs his mittens off, and they hang from his sleeves. They connect by a string. Hesitantly, Red reaches down and runs his fingers over the blades of sharp, washed out grass. It is the colour he remembers, somewhere between brown and green and dust.

            He bends forward, like an adherent. Palms to the ground, he presses his face to the earth and breathes in.

            He’s spent the last month swinging from a low grade state of fear to outright terror. The past two weeks in the mountains, taking his time so that he would not be seen, have taken their toll. He has to tie his belt in a knot now; it is too big for the holes. Red has done things this past month that have made him sick, that have given him new nightmares when he already filled his quota for a lifetime.

            And yet—he is home. Everything else melts away.

            Red melts to the ground, lays flat on his stomach. He caresses the grass the way he imagines one would a lover. He’s dizzy with hunger and lack of sleep, but he’s so close to the end that the thought of someone finding him now isn’t so terrible. He promised himself that he would return to Sokovia, and he has.

            If that was enough, he could just stop now. Here, in this beautiful place, the sheer peaks rising to frightening heights above him. He could just never get up. This could be the place where he finishes. No more pain. No more alone. Let them come find his body here. They could do whatever they liked to it then. He would already be gone.

            But he meant to finish. Sokovia was home—only he meant to be with his family again.

            Red inhales the scent of the grass, pushing himself back on his haunches. He gazes at the path ahead. More mountains. Trees. Plenty of cover.

            _They won’t bury you there. Your corpse will go to whoever gets there first, or the highest bidder_.

            Red thought about how easy it was to tear a thing apart. He wonders if he’d be able to tear himself apart at the atomic level. Does he have that kind of control?

            _I will_ , he thinks, and makes himself get up, and makes the last leg to Kamaj.

 

The closer he comes to the city, the more SHIELD teams he meets. Red slips by them, without engaging. _Not here_ , he thinks, and they all turn their backs. They are expecting a fight. He doesn’t intend to give them one.

            He comes across one group that he does not recognize. They speak Korean and dress in camouflage. _Not here_ , Red thinks, disappearing into the trees.

            He doesn’t sleep the last night. He doesn’t bother. All he can think of is home. He begins to recognize the peaks. He passes a small lake their parents brought them to once as children. Now it is filled with pieces of twisted metallic debris, something that had been hurled free of the city.

            Before dawn, he realizes he can smell the city. The light is coming over the hill. He has circled around the city, so that he’s to the east. There is one particular place he needs to be. They’ll know to look for him there. He’ll kill anyone who tries to get between him and where he means to be. If this is the end, he no longer cares about counting his sins. If there’s something beyond this, and he does not think there is, then nothing he does now will lessen his punishment.

            Red climbs the last hill without his powers. He’s so worn, and he knows he’ll need them to protect himself from whatever they have planned.

            He remembers the church. He remembers how he exploded outwards. He will have to implode.

            Using his hands to help him the rest of the way, Red pushes himself upwards. It doesn’t occur to him for a single moment that he will not succeed. He left doubt behind in Wakanda. He knows why he’s here. He knows what he’s come for.

            So he succeeds.

            He makes the top of the hill, and for a long time, regardless of who is watching, he can only stand there.

            He does not make a sound as his eyes take in what’s left of the city. There’s a crater. The buildings that are left surrounding it seem to only compound the absence. The city seems to ask: where is the rest of me?

            Red has come with the sun, and he sees the rays beginning to touch on the water. Beyond the lake he can see the massive piles of rubble. They are so large that they are almost a mountain themselves. Rock and earth and concrete and God only knows how many people. Even now.

            The fortress is in ruins, yet somehow it still stands. That any of it remains is a shock.

            He’s not let himself look at more than one or two photos, and only from directly after the whole terrible thing. He had thought that maybe by now, something more would have happened. But after all those years spent struggling, clinging to life by the tips of its fingers, the city has given in. The city is dead.

            Kamaj is a memory. Nothing more.

            Red is not here for the city, though. No. He’s come exactly where he means to be. He stands above the cemetery, above thousands of graves.

            He lets the jacket fall off his shoulders. He steps out of his boots, his movements slow. He cannot be any faster. Dropping the hoodie off his body too, he picks up the bag. Red searches through it, then fastens his fingers around the necklace. Pulling it out, he holds it up against the light.

            “Every witch needs one,” his brother had teased. Red had rolled his eyes at the pentagram.

            Now he pulls it over his head, then turns and floats down the hillside.

            No one is here this early, not that he can see. He wonders if there are snipers that he’s just not looking for. If they’re waiting for him to get where he means to be, then capture him.

            Red is so finished that all he can tell himself is _I will not be taken alive._ He looks like a wraith. He’s not bathed in two weeks, and he is ten pounds lighter than when he left Wakanda. His shirt is torn and stained with the blood from the gun shot. One of his fingernails completely tore off when he fell down the mountainside. The knees of his pants have worn through, and his feet are cracked and bloody.

            He feels none of it.

            He alights on the ground. He’s not been here before. He couldn’t. It was so soon after, and he just—he couldn’t.

            This is not where his parents are buried. They are in the old cemetery. All these people—these are the people who Red helped kill.

            He knows where to go. He doesn’t ask how he knows. Just like he didn’t ask when they were children.

            He spots the headstone from fifty feet away. They’ve all been constructed with whatever people could find, and there was plenty of material after the city fell apart above them. Pietro’s tombstone has been made from a chunk of concrete.

            Red does not stop until he is standing on the grave. The stone was obviously not in great condition when it was planted, but a chunk has been taken out of it since. The O in Pietro’s name has gone. In bright red spray paint is the word MURDERER.

            Going still inside, Red looks down. His brother is underneath him. He can’t help it. He reaches out with his thoughts and calls for him. Then he lets himself down on the ground.

            It’s quiet.

            They’re alone. Red doesn’t know how it’s happened. He doesn’t care. For this moment, it is just the two of them.

            He wants to reach his hands into the dirt. He wants to pull up clumps of grass and shove it all into his mouth. All he wants is to be close to his brother, to get back what he lost. But that’s never going to happen.

            “How could you do this to me?” he asks.

            He doesn’t speak to the stone. He’s seen people do that in movies. But Pietro isn’t there. He’s in the ground. So Red speaks to the ground.

            His hands are in fists. He is so angry. He’s so angry that he might throw up on the grave, or would if he’d eaten in three days.

            “You _left_ me,” Red hisses. “For what? For what did you leave me behind? We are supposed to be together. You and me. And you _left_ me. For some child you don’t know, and Barton. Why were their lives worth more? They weren’t. They weren’t worth _your_ life. They weren’t worth mine. But you killed us both. You selfish bastard. You killed us both.”

            He leans near to the ground, fingers curling into the earth. He pictures himself digging his hands into his brother’s shirt, shaking him.

            “Did you want to be a hero? Did you want to make up for what we’d done? You don’t get to be a hero after what we’ve done. You lay there—lay there with all the men and children and women you helped kill, and it can’t ever be made right. We promised—we promised we wouldn’t kill anyone, and we lied. We both knew it was a lie. Because you and I—we have always been monsters. From the moment we were born. Only I knew it. And you—you thought you could die a hero. You’re not a hero. You’re not even a martyr. You’re just dead, Pietro. Do you hear me? You’re _dead_.”

            Red pushes himself away. He’s shaking.

            He realizes he’s made a mistake.

            This has all been a terrible, _terrible_ mistake.

            He lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “First you kill me,” he says, and shakes his head at the blue sky. “And now I kill me too.” He pushes the divots he’s made in the ground back into place. He pats the ground a few times. “So. I guess we share.”

            The breeze lifts his hair off his forehead. Red looks up, the smell of something sweet on the wind. It’s the smell of home. Appropriate, then, that he’s surrounded by death.

            He stills.

            He’s not alone.

            Red whips his head around, eyes turning colour. His breath catches.

            There, amongst the tombstones, is a man with red and silver skin in a dark blue superhero suit. His yellow, shimmering cape moves slightly in the breeze. He looks at Red with strange eyes that always move, and stays where he is.

            Vision.

            For a moment, they do nothing but look at each other. Red is sick from the sight of him, completely overwhelmed. He has missed him so terribly, and he has no idea what’s going to happen.

            Vision steps forward and Red leaps to his feet, balls of energy crackling in his hands. Vision pauses, then says urgently, “Captain Rogers is already here. Stark is an hour away. And there are others. They are all coming for you.”

            Red swallows. “And you?” he asks. “Whose side are you on?”

            Déjà vu ripples through him, and he knows what the answer will be. It was one of the first questions ever asked of Vision, and he let them know he was on no one’s side. He never has been. Vision is not human. He’s a creature of logic. Red is dangerous. Everyone knows this. Red knows this more than anyone. Vision will take him away, will give him to people who will make sure that he can’t hurt anyone ever again. And Red will never be free.

            Red wishes it was anyone but him. Steve, Stark, the last of the HYDRA agents—anyone but Vision. He doesn’t want Vision to see him destroy himself.

            Vision stares at him, then he says, “Yours.”

            He doesn’t know what to do.

            Vision takes another step forward. “Wanda, please—“

            “That’s not my name,” Red whispers.

            Vision tilts his head. “What is your name?”    

            “Red.”

            “Red,” Vision echoes.

            “Yes.”

            Easily, Vision says, “Red—we have to leave. Immediately. They are coming. If they arrive before we leave—“

            Red runs to him.

            Vision doesn’t seem to understand at first, but then he spreads out his arms. Red runs through the graveyard to him, leaving everything else behind. He leaps off the ground, throwing his arms and legs around Vision, and he bursts into tears.

            Red buries his face against his neck and weeps as though it were his first time, as though these are the tears he has saved for a lifetime. He feels Vision holding him up, and at first the other man is too startled to say anything.

            “Please,” Red sobs. “Please.”

            “What do you want? What do you want me to do?”

            “Take me away from all of them. Don’t let them take me—Vision please—please, I don’t want to be this anymore—don’t let them take me—somewhere safe, oh God, just take me somewhere safe—“

            His voice firm, Vision says, “Hold onto me.” Red does as he’s told, and they burst off the ground into the air, and they move faster than Red has ever gone before.


	7. The Point of Infection

“Report to your stations immediately. This is not a drill. We are under attack.”

            Red listened to the bombs in the distance. He was staring at a point on the dark wall, not really paying attention to exactly what was happening. It was odd. He was used to the sound of explosives. He’d heard them his whole life. But they had always been random. No one was trying to kill _him_ exactly. The destruction of the city he lived in always seemed an afterthought.

            This time he’d picked sides. This time the bombs were aimed right at him.

            A gloved hand slipped into his. He looked up. He expected Pietro to smile, maybe, but his brother was uncommonly somber.

            _This is it,_ he heard whispered.

            Red couldn’t hear the others as well as he heard his brother. They had always been connected. Since birth. He had lost it for a short while, but now it was back, stronger than ever before. If only Pietro had it too.

            No. They shared. Pietro was fast, and Red was the weapon. Together, they did maximum damage.

            Or would, if Strucker ever let them loose.

            Red looked down at their hands. Pietro was touching the rings that had belonged to their mother.

            _They’ll take the base_ , Red said to him.

            _I know_.

            _Strucker, all of them—they’ll be caught._

            _Yes._

_But it’s not about them. They’ve only given us the first step. We are going to hurt them, and then we’re going to retreat._

Pietro looked in his eyes. _I’m not very good at retreating._

_You made me a promise. We will make them suffer._

_How badly can I make them suffer?_

_I need you to distract them. Keep them away from here. Stark is coming. I need to get my hands on Stark._

_And then._

Red raised a brow. _And then I do what I do_.

            Strucker was arguing with Dr. List. List wanted to send them out into the field. Red almost pitied them. The more he became acquainted with his new powers, the more he realized these people were utterly unequipped to deal with him. They thought he was a tool they could use.

            Ha. The only reason he had stayed this long with HYDRA was to use the fools as bait.

            He felt Pietro’s nervousness, and squeezed his hand. His brother frowned slightly. _What?_ Red asked.

            _I’m jealous._

Surprised, Red said, _Of what?_

_I think you could actually kill Stark. If you wanted. I think his machine would kill me before I ever got the chance._

With a sigh, Red answered, _We will hurt them. Together. And stop your whining. You’re six inches taller than me and twelve minutes older. Act like it._

            Pietro held back a smirk.

            Red felt the old stones vibrate underneath him. This was very real. All his life, he had waited for the opportunity to get revenge for what had been done to them, taken from them. This was the day he finally fought back.

            Only he and Pietro had survived the experiments. Out of all the volunteers plucked from the protests, only they remained. This didn’t surprise him. He doubted the others had their will.

            The lackeys were getting increasingly nervous. The men outside were getting slaughtered. Strucker was putting on a good face but Red knew he had no intention of going down with the ship.

            He took a breath, then turned. _We go_.

            They slipped out of the room without being noticed. A few seconds later, he heard the men yell, “No surrender!”

            He felt Pietro roll his eyes at the same second he did.

            They strode down the hall together, heartbeats in sync. Ever since the experiments, they were so much more in tune. Red could not believe he’d doubted doing this. It had given him so much. All right, yes, it had come at the hands of Nazi descendants, but you could only quibble so much. He was strong, he was connected with his brother—the only other thing he could ask for was revenge. And he was about to get it.

            “Hurt one of them,” Red said. “Not badly. Enough to draw their attention away.”

            “This I can do.”

            He gave the orders more often than not. They both knew that he tended to think before he acted, and Pietro did the reverse. In times like this, someone had to take charge.

            They were reaching the point where he knew they needed to part. For a second, Red felt a terrible surge of worry. He hated the Avengers, yes. But he didn’t underestimate them. He and Pietro were still very new at this.

            “Not the big one,” Red said.

            “What am I, stupid?” Pietro muttered. He thought about it, then nodded. “Barton.” He smiled sideways at Red. “Just to make you happy, I will start small.”

            Red stopped, seeing him prepare to disappear. “Pietro,” he said suddenly.

            His brother stopped and looked back. For a moment, Red thought of him that day as children when they first realized he could run faster. How he’d never bragged about it, never tried to make Red feel bad about what he couldn’t do.

            Red wasn’t good with sentiment. “I know I have not told you this in a few weeks, but—your hair looks like shit.”

            Pietro grinned. Then he turned and disappeared with a sound that was like the breaking of violin strings.

 

Red was walking down the back hallways when he felt Pietro’s sudden glee. At this distance, he usually couldn’t hear his words, only received impressions. He knew he had hit his mark. Red bloomed with pride for him.

            A second later, though, he did get words: _Holy shit I just hit Captain America._

            Red dropped his head on his shoulders. What happened to taking on someone small? He thought as hard as he could, _leave him be!_

Faintly, he got in return, _of course, I’m already gone_.

            Red cursed under his breath in Sokovian. He slipped away as some of the last soldiers ran past, unseen.

            They didn’t care for him much. Red thought it might have something to do with the name. Strucker had given them new names. If the Avengers had their hero names, his miracles would have some of their own. Pietro was Quicksilver.

            Red, without being consulted, became Scarlet Witch.

            Of course it had to have something feminine in it. Pietro could just be a word. Red had to be stuck with that same old word: witch. Strucker had asked, “What? You do not like it?” At the time, Red had been in some terrible contraption that shocked him any time he couldn’t control his powers. So he’d grit his teeth and said the name was fine.

            He looked the part. He knew it. Fine. So long as he scared the shit out of anyone who tried to cross him.

            Stark.

            Red felt him overhead. He had been flying around the building for awhile now. But he finally came close enough—God, he flew by the wall Red stood by. For one moment, Red reached out, and saw inside his head.

            He pulled away almost immediately. It had been what he expected. Arrogance, moral certainty, stubbornness. He was about to bring down the shields. Good. Red wanted him inside.

            The shield fell.

            Red continued his walk. He was headed back towards the labs. That’s where the scepter was. That was where they would go. It couldn’t have gone better if he’d planned it. Stark. All on his lonesome.

            Red had wondered what he would do. Ever since the pain stopped, ever since he could control himself, he had lain awake at night, balancing the geometric shapes they left in his room above his hands, and he had thought about what to do to these people. These gods who he’d watched destroy place after place that they then claim they had saved.

            He had business with Stark, yes. But all of them—all of them needed a reckoning.

            There were gunshots. They stopped very abruptly. Stark had gotten in. Red nodded to himself, holding up his skirt and walking carefully down the stairs. He didn’t need to rush. They were on his time table.

            And he wanted Stark to get deep inside.

 

He was nearing the back entrance to the workshop when he heard the voices next door.

            He sighed. He’d been so focused on Stark that he hadn’t noticed Captain America come into the building. At least he’d found Strucker.

            Well. Time for a demonstration. That, and—he couldn’t let Pietro be the _only_ one who hit Captain America. The righteous goodie two shoes from the old textbooks.

            Red stepped through the doorway, out of the shadows. Strucker noticed him right away, and didn’t say anything. He actually relaxed. He thought that Red was here to save him. Because that’s all Red was to him. A tool. Something to do his bidding.

            Red stepped forward with his hands cupped, and shocked Captain America down the staircase. It was actually a lot easier than he expected.

            He looked back at Strucker, and then moved backwards, and fast. He saw the realization, the fury on the man’s face, then closed the door on him.

            He heard the American say, “We have a second enhanced. Female.”

            Red’s lip curled. _I’ll get you for that._

_One day._

 

Red floated down the back steps of the workshop. He was used to the insane monstrosity that hung overhead. He was used to all of it. This was the world in which he now resided.

            Maybe the old him would have been horrified by this. But he knew that not all of himself had survived the experiment. You didn’t live through something like that and come out complete on the other side.

            Stark was coming. He was walking down the hallway. Red hung against the wall, his heartbeat surprisingly slow.

            This was the man whose mind had killed his parents. He held the patent on the bomb that killed them.

            His was the name they waited two days to kill them, pinned beneath their bed and five storeys of rubble.

            He entered the vast, dark room without his suit. Now that was a terrible idea.

            The first time Red laid eyes on Tony Stark in person, he didn’t feel much at all. For so many years, he had just been a name. He had been a word that represented every bad thing that had happened to them. When they promised that they would kill Stark, that they would make him suffer, what they really meant was that they would make _everything_ right. It was a childish notion, but it had been deeply meant.

            Now here he was. A middle aged man who clearly dyed his hair and absurdly sculpted goatee. No metal to hide behind, whether it be a suit or a bomb.

            _My God,_ thought Red. _If I wanted, I could tear out his brain._

            He lifted off the wall, approaching Stark from behind as the man spotted the glowing scepter. Stark spoke to one of the others, but Red wasn’t paying attention. He only had eyes for Stark.

            Lifting his hands, he put them to the sides of Stark’s head. The man froze as Red trapped him in place. Gathering the thought, Red pushed it out through his fingertips, and infected Stark with it.

            _EVERYTHING you fear._

            He stepped away, watching Stark’s reaction. It happened almost immediately.

            Red saw the outlines. He saw the terror, the grief. He saw a whole world at stake. He saw the utter despair of what would happen if something wasn’t done, immediately, whole heartedly, without compromise. There could be no compromise.

            The nightmare snapped, and he saw Stark’s resolve.

            He _had_ to save the world. No matter what. _No matter what_.

            Red could only gaze a moment at the awful thing he had birthed. He couldn’t see the future, no. But in that moment, he knew that Stark would destroy himself in the pursuit of this all-encompassing need.

            _You killed them. Now destroy yourself, being the hero_.

            Stark was still half dazed, dripping sweat, and didn’t hear the sound of breaking strings. Red lifted a hand, stopping Pietro. His brother looked down at him, displeased. Red felt his hatred. He wanted Stark.

            _You can’t have him_ , Red told him. _Not like that._

Stark made for the scepter, and Pietro whispered in confusion, “You’re just going to let him take it?”

            Pietro was breathing heavily beside him, Stark was going for the scepter, and all Red could do was smile. His mouth stretched into a thing of pure joy.

            _I cannot make things right. But I can make things a horror for those who made them wrong._

 

“What now?” Pietro burst out.

            Red sighed.

            It had been a few days since the fortress, and Pietro was, predictably, ready to run across Europe, over the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, go to the Avengers building, and pick them off one by one. Red didn’t want to remind him that he’d just thrown two of them off their feet. He hadn’t done any actual damage.

            He didn’t want to tell the truth, which was that he had done the _real_ damage.

            Pietro pushed himself to his feet and began to pace across the roof. He was the one who had wanted to come to this place. The apartment building that had been raised over the old one. The place where they had nearly died, where their parents had been taken. Red hadn’t been pleased with the idea, but he knew Pietro would be unhappy with what came after. He wanted to placate him.

            Pietro paced to and fro, shaking his silly long hair back and forth. The first time they were allowed out after the experiment,  he’d gone into town and dyed it white. Red reasoned that it could be worse. It could have gone that orangey blond that black usually did when it was bleached. When he returned, looking so proud of himself, he’d taken one look at Red and his happiness fled. “Shut up,” he muttered, without Red having said a word.

            It had grown out now, a few inches. Red was glad to see his regular hair coming back. It suited him better.

            “What now?”

            “You know what now.”

            Frustrated, Pietro growled, “I cannot. No. We have to—we have to go somewhere, do something.”

            “I agree. You were the one who wanted to come here—“

            “No. We have to leave Sokovia. We have to—we have to _do_ something.”

            “Go get the Avengers, you mean.”

            Pietro clapped his hands to his face. “He was _there_ ,” he moaned. “He was there, he was so close I could have—fuck, why did I say I wouldn’t kill him?”

            “Because this is worse.”

            “Yes!” Pietro yelped. “This is worse. This is you and me still in Kamaj, while they go home with the glowy blue stick and—have a party or something! And we sit here on the roof!”

            “Pietro.”

            “No,” he said stubbornly. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

            Red spoke anyways. “They have all the files from the base. They know everything about us. They probably even know that I am a man and you have a crush on that grandmother who lives down the street.”

            Flushing, Pietro sputtered, “I do not have—“

            “If we get on a plane, if we show our faces—we will be arrested. They will find us. The only reason they haven’t come back for us right now is because SHIELD is a disaster. HYDRA has fallen. HYDRA can’t protect us now. It’s just you and me, versus everyone else. Just like it’s supposed to be.”

            “So we go and do something—“

            “We already did something—“

            “ _You_ did something!” Pietro cried. “You did something, and you don’t even know—“ He turned away, putting his hands to the back of his neck.

            Red wasn’t offended. They were both tired. It had been a long year.

            “Do you trust me?” he asked.

            Pietro stared out at the city a few seconds more, then turned around. He nodded. “I trust you.”

            He walked back to Red, and sat down in front of him. Red leaned forward, holding his eyes. “We have to be patient. We will decide what we do. We need to be safe. They—they are going to come _apart_. I believe this. I believe this completely.”

            “You know this?”

            Red gave a nod. “I know this like I know I am your brother.”

            Pietro relaxed. Exhaling, he said, “I am not so good at patient.”

            “No.”

            Pietro said, “So we wait.”

            “We wait.”

            “Do we have to get jobs?”

            “I would like to have a place to live, yes.”

            Pietro broke into a grin. “I could run in races for a living.”

            “And I will be a fortune teller,” Red said with a straight face. “I will need a crystal ball.”

            Pietro started to laugh, then stopped. He frowned down at his pocket, then reached into his coat. He pulled out the phone HYDRA had given him.

            Red’s mouth dropped open. “Why do you still have that?!”

            Shrugging apologetically, Pietro said, “It was still good, I wasn’t going to throw it out.”

            Red dropped his face into his hands. “Oh my God.”

            After a moment, Pietro asked, “Look at this.” Red lifted his head, and took the phone.

            There was a text from an unknown number. ‘Meet me at the church if you wish to continue what you started.’

            “HYDRA,” Red muttered. “Great. Great! Three days we’re away from the Nazis, and you tell them where we are because there’s probably GPS in your stupid phone.”

            The phone vibrated in his hand. The next message said, ‘By the way, I’m sure Tony would send his regards, but he’s busy dealing with the mess he made. Anyways! See you soon.’

            Red frowned. After a second, he texted back, ‘Who is this?’

            The answer came almost immediately, ‘I am what you asked for.’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so clearly this is a rewrite of the opening scene of Age of Ultron, written of course by Joss Whedon. Mr. Whedon, please do not sue me.


	8. A Place with No Wars

When he wakes, he has no idea how far they’ve gone.

            It’s daylight again and they’re moving. Not at the speeds they went at yesterday. If they did, Red thinks that he would be sick.

            He lifts his head and gasps. They are over the water. It is cold, and the wind sends droplets across his face that feel almost like ice.

            “We’re almost there.”

            “Where are we?”

            “The Atlantic.”

            His face is cold but he isn’t. Since last night he’s been dressed in a puffy black coat and now he has boots on. “Not the compound,” Red says in horror, looking up.

            Vision looks slightly strained. “No. Iceland.”

            Iceland? Why in God’s name are they going to Iceland?

            But no wonder Vision seems tired. Yesterday they did not stop until it was dark. They flew so fast and hard, through trees, above the clouds, any way they could so that they would not be seen. When at last they came back down, they were in Germany, over a thousand kilometers from where they started.

            Red had barely been conscious. He remembers the doctor, vaguely. Remembers him saying, “I need to examine you, Miss—is that all right?”

            He said, “Do not call me Miss.”

            He can recall laying down on the table, but nothing after.

            Now they are over the ocean, and Red can’t even tally the miles.

            He looks up and asks, “Are you all right?”

            “I can see land, so I admit that I do feel somewhat better than previously.”

            He’s flown all night. Red understands. The only rest that he’s had was however long they were at the doctor. Red’s scared for him. Vision is synthetic, maybe, but it doesn’t mean he’s impervious or inexhaustible.

            “If you can go no further,” Red says, “I will carry you.”

            Vision looks down at him with a little smile. “Perhaps I shall take you up on that generous offer.”

            They smile at each other for the first time in—how long? Red doesn’t know how many months. His brain is foggy with exhaustion.

            He turns his head towards their destination. He sees cliffs, and green. He can see the mountains beyond.

            Red discovers that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care where they go or even what happens to him. He puts his face against Vision’s chest, and closes his eyes. There is a heartbeat, but he is not warm. He’s not cold either. He simply is.

            _I missed you so much_ , Red wishes he could say.

           

He realizes they are circling in a loop, and lifts his head. They are over land now, which is a relief, though they’re skirting the edge of a lake. At the far end is a village. Red feels a pang when he realizes that they are in a mountain range, nestled in low peaks.

            Vision slows, approaching a small cottage that sits about sixty feet back from the lake. He goes vertical, and they descend, until at last his feet touch upon the ground. He’s very careful when he sets Red on the earth.

            Red’s glad for it. His body is a collection of aches and pains and little more.

            Once Red is on his feet, Vision sits down in a controlled slump. He bends forward, and Red reaches out, concerned. He touches Vision’s shoulder. “You’re so silly. Why were you so silly? Why did you not rest?”

            His eyes closed, Vision answers, “You asked me…to take you somewhere safe.”

            Red looks over his shoulder. The cottage looks friendly. Inhabited. He cannot see anyone inside though, and there’s no vehicle outside. “And this is safe?” He turns his eyes back to Vision. “Who lives here?”

            “No one,” the man replies. He opens his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “That is why it’s safe.” He puts his hands down on the ground, as if steeling himself, then pushes himself to his feet. Red had forgotten how much taller he is. He has to tilt his head back to look at him. “I’m afraid—“ He pauses, then says, “Red, that I will need to rest for awhile before I’m much use to you, let alone anyone.”

            “Yes. Let us go inside.” He starts to reach out. “I could help you—“

            “Ah.” Red stops, and Vision says, “I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. I think I can accomplish this myself.”

            _Of course he doesn’t want you using your powers on him. You tore him apart and sent him hurtling through the earth._

            Red swallows, then nods. “Very well.”

            He follows Vision, who walks slower than usual, but he’s still standing straighter than Red. When Vision gets to the step, he produces a key. Red can’t tell where it’s come from. Vision unlocks the door, then steps inside. He waits until Red is in too before closing the door after him, and locking it.

            The moment he’s inside, he cannot help but relax. It is beautiful. It is not too fancy, and there is a red couch that looks like it would be wonderful to sleep on. The kitchen is little, but the stove is new. There’s no TV, and Red finds that a relief.

            Past the living room, he sees a door that opens up on a bedroom. He can see a bed with the sheets pulled down. Like someone has been waiting for them to arrive.

            He realizes that someone _has_ prepared. There are apples on the counter.

            Red is suddenly cautious. “What—is this place for?” he asks quietly.

            “It’s meant to be a safe place. In case of emergencies.”

            “Who else knows that I’m here?”

            “No one.”

            He’s never known Vision to lie before, but he remembers how betrayed he felt that day when he thought Vision was simply being kind, and discovered that he was surreptitiously keeping him from leaving the compound.

            “Do you promise?”

            Vision looks at him, as if puzzled by the question, and says, “I promise.”

            “Who else knows this place exists?”

            “No one. Well.” He nods towards the other end of the lake. “Save the people who can see it.”

            “I mean—why is it here? Is it SHIELD? Is it Stark’s? Whose is it?”

            Vision says, “Mine.”

            They haven’t moved far from the doorway. Vision is standing by the kitchen counter. He looks ludicrous, this man with the crimson skin in his dark blue suit and yellow cape, next to a cutting board.

            Red has his back to the door, ready to flee if need be. “And why do you have this? Why do you need a safe place?”

            He hesitates before answering. “I thought it might come in use…after Lagos.”

            Red is stunned.

            “You were very unhappy, and people were upset. Mr. Stark didn’t want you to leave the facility, but I thought that if things became untenable—you might prefer a place like this.”

            “Iceland,” Red says flatly, and he gets it. “As far from people as possible.”

            “They’ve never had a war,” Vision says, as if that helps. “If you don’t count the one that they had over fish with the United Kingdom several decades back.”

            “If you wanted me where I can’t hurt anyone, why have me near people at all?”

            His eyes widen. “No. No, I fear there has—been a misunderstanding. I thought—perhaps you would like somewhere quiet. The last few years have been very—difficult for you. I’ll admit as well that I thought an isolated place would lower the likelihood of people recognizing you if you did not want them to. But no—no, I did not bring you here because I was worried you would hurt someone.”

            Red wants to believe him. Vision isn’t human. He doesn’t lie, like everyone else, and that’s one of the reasons that Red is drawn to him. When everything else is in chaos, Red can point to Vision as true north.

            Still—he can’t commit. “The man in Slovenia. Did I kill him?”

            Vision blinks. “Yes.”

            Red looks away. “Of course I did.”

            He unzips the jacket. It’s cooler here than southern Europe, but it’s still summer. He slips out of the jacket with a small sound of discomfort, and looks for a place to put it. Lifting a hand, he floats it up onto a hook by the door.

            “So this place,” Red says, “that’s here, so that I can be away from people—what if I decide to turn around and walk out the door.”

            Vision inhales, and says, “You walk out the door.”

            “And then?”

            “And then you do as you please.”

            “If I leave this place, and I try to disappear—what then?”

            “Then you try to disappear. But it would be disingenuous for me to say that I wouldn’t be easily able to find you again.” He winces slightly. “That came out in a way I did not intend. I am good at finding people, but what I think concerns you is that I would try to find you and alert the others as to your whereabouts. I wouldn’t.”

            “Why?” Red challenges.

            Vision only stands there. “Why?” he echoes.

            Red nods emphatically. “Yes— _why_?”

            Vision searches for the answer, then lifts his shoulders. “I thought we were friends,” he says a bit helplessly.

            Red stares at him. “How can you say that?” he croaks.

            Abashed, Vision says, “I know that you’re upset with—“

            “I _disintegrated_ you,” Red says in disbelief. “How can you still want to be friends with me?”

            Vision looks at him, and smiles. “You—think I’m upset with you?”

            “How can you not be? I _hurt_ you.”

            His smile dims. “No.” After a moment, he adds, “And yes.”

            “Which is it?” Red asks, voice frantic.

            “Why don’t we give it a few minutes and check in with Mr. Schrödinger’s cat?” Vision shakes his head. “I’m quite all right. Remember—“ His hand flickers, and he puts it through the counter a few times. “I can change my molecular density. You did not disintegrate me. For a moment you—disrupted me. How about we use that word instead? It comes closer to the truth.”

            “Then what did the ‘and yes’ mean?”

            “Because…I thought that we were friends.”

            Red wants to cry again for a moment, but he cried too much yesterday. “You were keeping me prisoner,” he says.

            “An error in judgment,” Vision replies. “One which will not be repeated.”

            “How can I know that?”

            “I—can only hope that you would trust me.” He shrugs. “Like I trust you not to disrupt me when you’re cross.”

            Ashamed, Red says, “I would not…not again. I—“ He bites his lips, and looks up at Vision from under his brows. “I am sorry.”

            “As am I.”

            Red clenches his hands together, unsure what to do in this tidy, well-lit little home. Unable to believe that he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder, he says, “You are certain no one else knows I am here?”

            “Yes.”

            “Not Stark? Not anyone?”

            “I am sure.”

            “And will you tell anyone?” He sees how uncomfortable Vision is, and pushes it. “When they ask you if you know where I am, what will you say?”

            Considering his response, Vision says, “I will tell them that I am unable to provide that information.”

            “What if they _make_ you talk?”

            The tall man tries to pull back a light grin, and doesn’t quite succeed. Tapping by the yellow thing on his forehead, he replies, “Having an Infinity Stone in my head makes it slightly difficult for anyone to coerce me.”

            Red smiles, despite himself.

            Vision leans back against the counter, folding his hands together. “I can’t compel you to trust me. Only time will prove that I’m worthy of that. In the meantime—rest. Think about what you want to do. And whatever you decide, I will help you.”

            “And the Council? The Accords?”

            “It—appears that I am not immune to moral flexibility.”

            “You still think I was wrong. To go. To pick sides with Steve.”

            “Do you think you were right?” Vision returns.

            Red sighs. He needs to lay down. “I think—it was a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” He heads towards the bedroom. “And get that look off your face. Yes, I read.”

            “There was no look on my face. And I know that you read. I—brought some of your favourite books.” Vision clears his throat. “I’m afraid—“ Red looks back. Vision looks uncomfortable, almost disappointed in himself. “I forgot to bring clothes for you. I was in a hurry to reach Sokovia before the others, so it did not take priority.”

            “That’s fine.”

            “I can bring some of your old things—“

            “No,” Red says quickly, and there’s no missing the tilt of Vision’s head. “No, you don’t need to do that.” He threads his fingers together and opens his hands, looking down into them. He is very nervous.

            “Very well. I can bring you new clothes, if you like.”

            “Maybe I should get them myself.”

            “You don’t care for my choice in clothing,” Vision teases, but Red can feel how his gaze probes. He knows that Vision is trying to figure him out.

            So he says, cheeks flushing, eyes firmly on the ground, “I have to tell you something.”

            “All right.”

            He gestures awkwardly to his chest. “Did the doctor…tell you about this?”

            Several seconds go by. “Yes. He relayed that you needed to moisturize, but otherwise the procedure looked expertly done. He—said it did not appear to be the result of an injury. That you altered your appearance for cosmetic reasons.”

            There is a lump in his throat. No one knows. No one living knows.

            “I did this because I’m not a woman,” Red says abruptly.

            “All right,” Vision says, without a single dip in his voice. “If you are not a woman, may I ask what you are, if in fact there is an identity you prefer?”

            Red looks up, startled. Vision is still gazing at him, unchanged. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening, Red says, “I am a man.”

            Vision nods again. “Very well. So you would prefer that I bring men’s clothes?”

            Red’s mouth is working. After a few attempts, he says, “Yes.” Vision nods, as if this has been the least important thing they’ve discussed. Red swallows what seems like a whole mouthful of spit, and gestures towards the bedroom. “I’m going to lay down now.”

            “As am I,” Vision says, leaving the counter and moving to the couch. His cape flutters back into his shoulders.

            At the last moment, Red says, “Vision.” The man pauses, and Red goes to him. He wraps his arms around him, squeezing him around the middle. He wonders if Vision will not want to touch him, now that he knows. If he’ll be disgusted.

            Only Vision leans down, putting his arms around Red, and pats the back of his head.

            Red whispers, “I missed you. Very much.”

            “As have I.” Vision holds him tighter.

            For the first time, Red believes that he is safe here.

 

If he’s ever slept this much in his life, he can’t remember it.

            When he wakes up, the light is faint. He thinks that maybe it’s evening. But then he realizes that the light is coming from the east, and he’s slept clear through the day, and the night.

            Red pushes himself up, groggy. There’s a light on in the other room. “Vision?” he calls.

            There’s the sound of movement. “Do you need me?”

            _Do I need you, let me think. How could I not would be a better question_. “No,” Red says, pushing aside the sheets. “I wanted to see if you’re still here.”

            “I am.”

            His stomach growls, so loud he imagines Vision can hear it from the other room. Rubbing it, Red looks to the end of the bed. On top of the dresser there is a small pile of clothes in black and red. “I will have shower. Then food?”

            “All right.”

            Red goes into the bathroom, and because he doesn’t know it he has to turn on the lights. Everything is spotlessly clean. The walls are wood, like the rest of the cottage, and the shower curtain is crimson. The kind of shampoo he used back at the compound sits on the edge of the tub.

            Red strips off his clothes. They’re hospital scrubs. He looks at them, then puts them in the garbage.

            Drawing across the shower curtain, he reaches inside and turns on the water. Testing it with his finger, he turns on the shower. He gives it a minute, in case the water needs warming up, then glances at himself in the mirror.

            _Good lord_.

            He looks like death warmed over. His ribs are all showing, and his skin has sunken back against his cheeks. Was it just ten pounds he lost between Wakanda and Sokovia? His hair is a greasy mess, and the stitches are still in from his bullet wound.

One thing looks better. He probes his pink nipples carefully. They hurt. There’s still a little black piece of scab. He pulls it off unceremoniously and drops it in the sink. A little bead of blood wells up, and he mutters, “Well done.”

            The scars look less angry. He’s supposed to use lotion. He opens the medicine cabinet, and finds some, as well as razors, and shaving cream, and pomade. They’re all men’s.

            Red doesn’t quite believe they’re for him. He climbs into the tub, under the shower, and nearly falls back asleep.

 

He settles on a slim fitting pair of black jeans and a plain red t-shirt, then hesitantly looks out through the doorway.

            Vision is in the kitchen. He’s not in his superhero outfit, but a sweater and slacks. He looks adult, and Red feels a little like a child in these simple, small clothes.

            Vision raises his eyes from the bowl of cereal that he’s pouring. “Good morning.”

            “Good morning.”

            He falters. “Are the clothes all right? I’m afraid it was all I manage on short notice. I tend to—attract attention.”

            “They’re fine,” Red says, pushing away from the doorway.

            “Good,” Vision says, relieved. As Red climbs onto a stool at the counter, Vision unpeels a banana, and begins to slice it over the cereal.

            Red loves him like this. It is so incongruous. This miracle, this thing that is not human and who does not entirely look like one either, being so sweet and domestic. At first he liked it because it was funny. Now he likes it because he knows Vision.

            “I like when you cook for me,” he finds himself saying, and once he does, he can’t help but blush. He feels like he has to cover it up, or at least explain in a way that doesn’t say, _I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted anyone more than you and there have been nights where I laid awake terrified because I knew you’d never want someone like me back_. “No one has cooked for me since my mother. Pietro was useless in the kitchen. He made this awful, awful revalle that I refused to eat, to try and prove he could, and I wouldn’t eat it because it smelled like something a dog threw up. He ate it just to prove me wrong, and he was sick for days. So I did all the cooking after that. And you—you’re the only person who has cooked for me.”

            He was trying to cover it up, but then he brought it right back. Splendid performance.

            “Ah. Well, bearing that in mind, perhaps next time I will make more of an effort,” Vision says, and pushes the bowl across the counter with both hands.

            Red laughs softly, and takes the spoon he is offered.

            For the next few minutes, all he can do is eat. He knows he’s being rude, but he can’t help it. He puts his head down low to the bowl and inhales the cereal and milk and fruit.

            When he’s finished, he’s breathing heavily. His eyes go back to the box.

            “More?”

            Red nods, and Vision fills the bowl up halfway.

            This time, Red is able to take his time. He understands that he probably looks like a feral dog right now. He swallows slower, realizing that Vision is just watching him eat.

            It makes him a little uncomfortable, but he sends out the smallest probe. All he feels from Vision is a sense of protection, and concern.

            Red pulls back into himself. He can’t help but wonder. Looking down into the bowl, he asks quietly, “Do I disgust you?”

            “I’m sorry? No, obviously you’ve been very hungry. I’ve made you uncomfortable by looking too long. I apologize, I’ve only been—worried for you.”

            Miserable, Red says, “No. Not that.” He turns a piece of cereal over with his spoon. “What…I said yesterday.”

            He’s not looking at Vision’s face when he asks, “When you said that you were a man?” Red nods a little. “Of course not.” He comes around the counter to sit by Red. Red’s partly glad for his nearness, but also has the natural urge to pull away from him and hide. He’s never done this before. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. “It doesn’t change the way I feel about you, or the way I see you. No, that’s not entirely true. I see the—surface? Of you, in a different light. But who you are—that hasn’t changed.”

            “You say that,” Red whispers.

            “Should I see you differently?”

            “Maybe you should.”

            “But I can’t. I’ve always seen—you.” Vision raises his shoulders. “Perhaps I’ve not always understood what I’ve seen. Or behaved towards you as I should. I ignored your wishes before, and the situation we found ourselves in was rather—messy. However—if you expect my opinion of you to change because of a name—a gender—I’m afraid I’m incapable.”

            “How?” Red says a bit helplessly. “How do you just not—care?”

            Vision frowns slightly. “I would not say I don’t _care_. I care because I can tell this has caused you a great deal of pain. Anything that causes you pain—I care quite deeply about. However, gender is a fluid concept, one that I of all people perhaps understand more than most.”

            Red turns to him. “How do you mean?”

            Pausing, Vision says, “You were present at the moment of my creation.”

            The lightning. The surge. The sudden _there_ of another being in Red’s mind. They had gazed at one another, and to this day, Red wondered if his was the first face Vision saw. “Yes.”

            “You were at such an angle to discern that I’m without genitalia.”

            Eyebrows raising, Red takes a moment to admit, “Yes.” He does _not_ admit that he’s thought about that since. That if he ever—tried—with Vision, what would that even mean? He can create clothes for himself. What about appendages? Would he feel that? Red has never been in a position to ask.

            “I am not human. I’m synthetic. And yet—because I speak with JARVIS’ voice, I am considered male. I have a face that looks like a male’s, and the proportions of one, so I’m considered male. But—again, I am synthetic, and don’t possess the reproductive systems of a male. So—am I male? Am I not and am only assumed to be because of a voice, a frame?” His eyes search Red’s face. “Do you remember what you said, the first time you saw me?”

            Regretful, Red says, “No—after you were created, it was so fast—“

            “No. I mean when you saw me in the cradle.”

            He remembers. “He is dreaming,” Red murmurs.

            Vision nods, and Red thinks of how furious he was with Steve in their very first encounter. _I am a terrible hypocrite_ , Red tells himself.

            “You said that even though I was not, strictly speaking, alive. Before I even had life, people assigned a gender to me. Ultron assigned a gender to me, because he believed I would be an extension of him. But he was a machine. Can a machine have gender? I don’t say this with the assumption that they cannot. He felt pain. He had ambitions. Perhaps he was male, and not only because he spoke with the voice of one.”

            _I am not a man_ , Ultron had said to them in the church, rising up from a veritable throne.

            “Pronouns are a short hand we sometimes use for a lack of understanding, or of thought. I know this. It does not—diminish my respect for you. Or my affection.”

            Red rubs his hands together. “Do—you not like to be called he? Is there something you would prefer?”

            Vision considers it, then shakes his head. “No. I think perhaps I am male. Whatever that means. Even though I haven’t quite figured that out myself.”

            “Me neither,” Red says with a quick, relieved laugh.

            Vision smiles a little, then asks, “Your alterations please you, though? They give you comfort?”

            Red looks down at himself. He sees a flat plane where once there were curves. “Yes,” he says, and smiles. “Yes, they—give me great comfort.” He hesitates, and swallows. “I…I will need medicine.”

            “To continue.”

            “Yes.”

            “There is a doctor in the village. You will have to see him. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you with whatever you need. And if that proves not to be the case, we will find other avenues.” Vision’s eyes widen, and he says, “Oh, I’d nearly forgotten.” He pulls a number of cards out from his pocket, giving them to Red. “You’ll need these.”

            There are two credit cards. Then there is an ID card. It has his picture on it, only he looks healthier, though still with his short hair. It says he is Anton Serenov. It says he is male.

            Vision is telling him that the name is just a temporary  measure, that he can pick his own when he decides what he’s going to do long term. But Red is holding the card in his hand, seeing finally an at least androgynous person looking back, and it is the first time he’s held a thing that says he is a man.

            “How long can I stay here?” Red asks, cutting him off.

            “However long pleases you. A day, a month, the rest of your life—whatever you like.”

            “I’ll keep the name,” he says softly.

            “Would—you like me to call you Anton?”

            “No,” he says quickly, and Vision nods. “It is a good name, and it will be the name I use, but—Red is _my_ name. It’s…the name Pietro gave me.”

            “Very well, Red.”

            He sets the cards down, and looks around. The house is small, but more than enough room for him. It radiates safety. And the more he looks, the more red he sees hidden away here and there. He thinks that Vision did that with him in mind.

            “It’s all right if I stay here?”

            “Of course.”

            Red chews his lip, and decides. “I will do that, then.”

            He nods, and continues to eat his cereal.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, folks,  
> I'm slightly dazed that anyone's read this, let alone enjoyed it, and it means the world to me when you leave kudos or comments. So if you felt like doing that, you wouldn't believe how giddy it makes this guy.  
> Either way, I'm so pleased you've stuck with me this far. Hopefully you stay on--this is where the story turns and goes in a different direction from the first half.


	9. When There is No Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having trouble with some of the formatting that I can not work out. Please bear with me while I never figure out this problem, because I'm lucky I can type, let alone turn on a computer.

It is a week before he ventures out into the village.

            Vision has been gone for five days. He warned that it might be some time before he could return, but he gave Red a little piece of tech, smaller than the end of his thumb. It is black and has a button he can press.

            “If you need me, just speak into this and I’ll come. Wherever I am—whatever I am doing—I will come.”

            “Is it a distress signal?”

            “No. It’s merely a way for you to speak to me.”

            “So…if I wanted to talk to you, and that was all that I wanted—could I use this?” Red had blushed as he asked this, wondering if he was that naked in his need.

            Vision just nodded. “Yes.”

            So Red has the little button in his hand as he walks along the lake towards the village. It’s mid-day, and he should have left the house yesterday because the food was beginning to run low, but he was afraid. He doesn’t like to admit that to himself, but it’s been easy to hide in the house under a blanket with a book and ignore the outside world.

            That shames him, though. He’s Red Maximoff. He’s _never_ done what’s easy instead of what’s necessary. On with the clean clothes, the little red jacket, the boots, and out into the world.

            It seems like the middle of nowhere—he has no idea how far they are from the next town, what side of the country they’re on—God, he has no idea what _language_ these people will speak (Icelandic? Is it as simple as that?), but there are some universal truths. If these people have one TV, one computer in this town, and they will, because it’s the twenty first century, someone will have heard of him. He was an Avenger.

            Even now, it seems like a dream or a bad joke: _I was an Avenger_.

            An old man walk towards him. Red swallows. No, the man wasn’t coming to him, he was just walking along the lake, and they were going to cross paths.

            Red has thought about what he wants to do. He might be here awhile. There’s nowhere else he wants to go, really. He doesn’t know what the road ahead will have for him, but after Sokovia he knows he’s not prepared to die. That leaves everything perilously open ended though. He does not know what to do with his life.

            But he does know what to do about this.

            He pulls to his left, slightly, letting the old man walk closest to the lake. Then man nods to him, and Red nods back. His hand is hidden under his arm. He sends him a fast, light thought, but one which will hopefully take root.

            The man does not slow, just continues his walk.

            Red is nauseous as he approaches the village, and he reprimands himself for his weakness. He knows he is capable of this. He stood in the middle of Sokovia and spoke one word in his mind— _leave_ —and thousands of people left whatever they were doing and evacuated. He has worked his will on a city a hundred times larger—more, much more—than this small place.

            With a swallow, he slips the button into his pocket. For a moment, he closes his eyes, telling himself to be calm. Destruction comes easily to him. He does not want to hurt anyone here.

            He is sick to death of hurting people.

            Opening his eyes, he lifts his hands and cocks his fingers. His vision goes red, and threads begin to extend from his fingertips to the village.

            He finds thirty three minds, and knows he will have to come back to do this again. He can tell that many people leave this place to go to work in—there is a town. Twenty kilometres away. That is where almost everyone in town works. The only people left right now are the elderly, and the children, and the people at the store and the restaurant. He’ll come back at night, and do the ones who’ve returned.

            Red gently slips into their minds, and seeds the thought there. It is not a malignancy, which he is an efficient terror at planting. It is a truth. Otherwise, their eyes and ears might lie to him. He is so sick of living the lie.

            When he finishes, he loosens his hands, letting his focus snap, and stands there a moment. He’s partly worried that someone—or everyone—is about to run screaming into the streets wondering what the hell just happened.

            There’s silence. And then a dog barks.

            Red takes a deep breath, and continues his walk into the village.

 

It has obviously been here a long time. The place looks lived in, but it also looks loved. People have repainted their homes within the last two years, and they keep the buildings clean. There’s no difference between sidewalk and road, only asphalt. The place is so small that he doesn’t imagine anyone drives anywhere in the village.

            Red goes to the restaurant, which is near to the road that leads out of town. It’s next door to the only store. He passes a few people on his way, and they look at him curiously, but they smile politely, and he nods to them.

            When he steps inside, he sees that the inside walls are wood planks, much like the house where he lives. There’s ten tables, and only one of them is being occupied, by a burly man in a fisherman’s sweater who’s tucking into a plate of some kind of seafood.

            There’s no one else that Red can see. He stands there awkwardly a moment, then the man swallows his mouthful and hollers something over his shoulder. He smiles at Red, saying another few words. Red just nods. He never thought he’d have to learn Icelandic, of all things.

            A skinny young man with green hair comes out from the kitchen, waving. He’s apologizing.

            Before Red moves from the spot he’s in, he asks hopefully, “English?”

            The young man stops briefly, then says, “Yes, English. Please, come, have a seat. I would tell you that you could have the best seat in the house, since you are a guest, but Dagur has already taken it.”

            “You’re welcome to join me, English,” says Dagur.

            “I would not like to disturb you,” Red says.

            “Trust me,” says the green haired man. “He is already disturbed.”

Dagur points at the waiter. “Young man.” Then he gestures the seat across from him. “Please, join me.”

            “Oh, leave him alone,” the green haired man says, and Red goes weak in the knees a moment.

            It worked.

            The green haired man is leading him to another table, but Red says to the big man, “You are sure I will not bother you?”

            Dagur grins, and gestures again to the other seat.

            Red goes to it, and the green haired man clears his throat. “Very well.” He sounds a little less friendly than before. “Oh—a menu—“

            As Red sits down, the big man says, “Don’t worry, Bjarni. I’ll tell him what’s good.” He shrugs. “Besides, he speaks English. How is he supposed to read the menu?”

            The green haired man frowns, muttering something in Icelandic, and disappears back into the kitchen.

            “I have offended him,” Red says, not understanding what he’s done.

            With a snort, Dagur shakes his head. “No, that is not what you’ve done. He is jealous.”

            Confused, Red asks, “What would he be jealous of?”

            “Because usually he has me to himself, and now I have another pretty young man sitting across from me. He’ll probably grind up glass in your food.”

            Red is deeply conflicted for a moment. He objects to the use of the word ‘pretty.’ But when it is attached to ‘young man’—perhaps that is not so terrible.

            Dagur laughs. “I’m teasing you. I’m sorry, you’re a guest and I’m being terribly rude.” He holds out a hand that is the size of Red’s face. “Dagur Diðriksson.”

            “Red,” he answers, his hand disappearing inside of Dagur’s. “Red Serenov.”

            Going back to his meal, Dagur says, “With a name like this, you must be Russian.”

            It’s not until he says it that Red realizes how true that is. And he could lie. He knows enough about Russia, he has a cover for it, Natasha taught him how to do that—but he’s sick of lies.

            “No,” he says. “I’m Sokovian.”

            Dagur chews a moment. “Sokovian.” Red nods, a bit tense. “You’re a long way from home.”

            “Yes.”

            “Kamaj?”

            It is a question he never got in America. But here—in Europe—they know. He nods again.

            Dagur doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, reaching for his water. Then he rolls his eyes and drops his head back on his shoulder, yelling at the kitchen, “Bjarni!” He says something in Icelandic, then turns back to Red. “You like lamb?”

            “I’ll eat anything,” Red says.

            “You should be careful saying things like that. That’s how you end up eating _hákarl.”_

The green haired young man emerges from the kitchen with a glass of water and a general air of unhappiness surrounding him. He sets the glass of water down in front of Red, but then Dagur takes him by the back of the pants, tugging him back a few inches. Wrapping an arm around his legs, Dagur speaks to him in a low, teasing voice, but Red can feel the seriousness in whatever he was saying.

            After a moment, Bjarni’s eyes widens, and he glances at Red. Red understands what is being said now.

            The man’s dislike for Red evaporates, like a puff of smoke, and he smiles like he did when Red first came in. “Yes,” he says, “you should try the lamb. Do you like beets?”

            “Yes,” Red says, a little stronger than he means to.

            When Bjarni turns to go, Dagur smacks him on the ass, and the younger man hisses at him in embarrassment. But Red can feel his pleasure too, knowing that it is a sign of ownership.

            “So?” Dagur asks. “What brings you to our nowhere?”

            Red realizes he has no idea what the village is called, and it will look very strange if he asks. “I am…staying at my friend’s. The—cottage down the lake. The red one.”

            “Erla’s,” Dagur says in surprise. “You are at Erla’s house.”

            Red doesn’t know what that means. So he says, “I do not know what that means.”

 _“_ That was Erla Hallgeirsdóttir’s house until she died last year. Her son—greedy little prick that he is—went and sold it less than a month after she died. It’s been quite the topic of—what’s the word for it? Gossip. That is the word.”

            Red shrugs. “I had nothing to do with the greedy prick.”

            “No. But your friend owns it, you say? We’ve never seen him. People come and go sometimes, taking things out there.”

            “He is…busy. He works overseas.” Red realizes that he is building a narrative that will have to live for a long time, depending on how many days or months or years he means to stay here. “I have been sick. He is very generous, and it is a place for…a place where I can be while I get better.”

            Dagur’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve been sick.”

            For some reason, he does not read to Red as nosy. He feels concern, and does not know why this complete stranger would care if he’s been sick.

            “Yes.” Red remembers. “Actually—he said that there was a doctor in town. Do you know where I could find him?”

            Dagur laughs. “Yes.”

            “Where?”

            He spreads his hands. “You’re having lunch with him.”

            After staring a moment, Red says, “This is a very good coincidence, then.”

            “It is.” Dagur cuts off a few pieces of his fish, and says, “But typical for me. Living in this place—my days off are never really days off. My clinic is in town, but I have a day off, and people come find me.”

            “I’m sorry to interrupt—“

            He waves a hand. “No, no. I am a saint. My work is never done.” He winks at Red, then points at his fish. “You want some of this? It is very good.”

            “No, thank you. I will wait for lamb.”

            “Well, Red Serenov—usually I would tell you to come and see me during my office hours. But how about we have something to eat, and we will talk like regular people, and then you and I will discuss whatever it is that you need to discuss with a doctor. Yes?”

            He nods. “Yes.”

            “Good. Bjarni will be happy as well. I’m far less likely to flirt with my patients.”

           

Red has to work Dagur several times before he gets what he wants.

            He doesn’t like that he has to manipulate the man so many times in such a short period. The man is obviously a good doctor. The jovial, flirtatious exterior disappears when they are alone at Dagur’s house. Red has to hit him with a thread to convince him to examine him at his home instead of going into town. Red doesn’t want to leave the village. The curtains are drawn, and Red hopes that Dagur is professional.

            He is, exceedingly so, and very cognizant of Red’s discomfort at being in so vulnerable a position. His bedside manner is good. Red usually wouldn’t care about that—he’s lived through experimentation by HYDRA scientists—but these are different days, and it’s not his powers being tested, it’s his body that’s on display. Dagur doesn’t make him feel bad.

            He wants to send Red for blood work before prescribing anything, but Red hits him again, even though he accepts he is taking a risk. There’s no knowing how his body chemistry will react to another substance introduced to it. But the idea of having samples of his blood floating around somewhere is unacceptable. God only knows what they’d find.

            So he changes Dagur’s mind, and the man writes out the prescription. He’ll have to order the medication. It will take a few days.

            And Red has to hit him one more time, because he’s not an Icelandic citizen, and he has no idea how the healthcare system works here. He’s used to the Sokovian way, of fixing it yourself or being prepared to give a doctor your life savings. He knows it’s different elsewhere, but he doesn’t know the ins and outs.

            He puts it in Dagur’s head that he _must_ get Red the medicine, that he needs to be careful and not get caught doing it. Red will have to ask Vision how to do this better next time.

            Dagur is nice. Red doesn’t want him to get in trouble.

           

When they are done, Dagur walks him to the store. Red feels guilty for manipulating him so much, but the man seems fine. His cheer is not a product of Red’s fiddling with his mind. He’s just a happy person.

            _I’m not sure I deserve to know someone like this_.

            Dagur enters the store with a loud hello, and the woman behind the counter replies to him with exasperation.

            Dagur reaches out, putting a hand to the back of Red’s shoulders. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. He’s not used to people just _touching_ him. Something about him tends to repel people.

            Not Dagur. He pushes Red forward, and says, “Tinna, this is Red. Red, this is Tinna. Red’s living in Erla’s place.”

            The woman looks overjoyed. The store must be the center of town. This is the only place that people have to go to, besides the restaurant, and therefore this must be the center of gossip, and therefore she must be the head gossipmonger. “So you are the mysterious person who bought Erla’s!”

            “No,” Red says. “I am not—mysterious.”

            Laughing, Dagur says, “His friend owns the house, Tinna. Red’s just staying there. He needs things.” He claps Red on the back. “Come on. Let’s get what you need.”

            Red gets a basket, and follows him up and down the three aisles. Soon he will know how to do this himself, but he’s glad for a guide. He has no idea what the words on the packages mean, and he’s grateful for a translator.

            He only needs food. Everything else is well stocked. He’s cleaned the house twice already, top to bottom. He wants to keep everything neat, because—well, because the place, its safety, is a gift.

            Dagur forestalls any of Tinna’s questions as Red pays, nervous about using the credit card for the first time. Dagur keeps up a string of patter with the shopkeeper as Red waits to see if the card works. He knows it will, because Vision said that it would, but he cannot help wondering if this is setting off an alarm somewhere.

            The card goes through. They say their goodbyes, and leave the store.

            “There,” Dagur says. “Like ripping off a band aid.”

            “Sorry?”

            “You had to meet Tinna at some point. Everyone’s been talking. They saw the lights on at the house. Now they’ll have an answer, and they can talk about that for awhile.”

            Nervous, Red asks, “They will not…they will not come to talk to me, will they?”

            “They might. They think they are being friendly, but really, they just want to know what’s going on. Do you want them to stay away?” Of course Red wants them to stay away, and he thinks that tonight, when he comes back to work his will on those who left for the day, he will plant another suggestion in everyone’s minds: _stay away_. But Dagur says, “I will tell them to mind their own business. They will leave you be.”

            Red glances at him as they walk down the street together, in the direction of home. Dagur is carrying his bags, because he said astutely, “Are you supposed to be carrying more than four kilos right now?”

            “Are you a person people listen to?”

            “Believe it or not, I am.”

            “I just…I want to be alone. I don’t want people coming to the house.”

            “It’s a good place to be alone. A little. We’re at a bit of a distance from everything else. But the people who are here—they worry about one another. Tell stories about one another. It is human nature.”

            “Yes.”

            “I’ll tell them to leave you in peace. They’ll listen.”

            They’re past the edge of the village when Red asks, “Are you this nice to everyone? Or…is it just pretty young men?”

            Dagur grins widely. “That helps, yes. I’ve always been—I like people. I just do. Plenty of people don’t have that.”

            “I do not have that.”

            “I like to help. I like to be useful. Besides, not much happens around here. And you look like you could use a friendly face.”

            Red wants to say that he doesn’t. He doesn’t need comfort. He doesn’t need pity, or sympathy, or whatever it is that people have to offer. But instead, he says, “I have not seen many of those.”

            He feels Dagur’s gaze on him, but he watches the ground. “You know,” Dagur says conversationally, “I never got as far as Sokovia. But when I was about your age—about a million years ago now—I was in Yugoslavia.”

            “The war?” Red asks.

            “Mm,” Dagur nods.

            “Why were you there?”

            The man snorts softly. “I had a foolish notion that I could help. I was a peacekeeper, then. With the UN.” He shrugs. “You’re young, you think you can change the world…make it a better place. Then you see what the world’s really like.”

            Red looks at the house in the distance, on the side of the lake. “When I was young, I thought I could change the world.”

            He’s startled when Dagur bumps his arm. For the man, it’s probably a gentle nudge, but he’s at least a sixty kilos more than Red, so he almost trips off his feet. “You know, you’re _still_ young.”

            This time it is Red’s turn to snort. “I do not feel that way.”

            “I suppose age is in the mind, at least a little.”

            “Is that why you are having sex with a man half your age?”

            Dagur’s laugh is so loud that Red swears it echoes. Finally, he says, “No—I think that’s just because I am a terrible, terrible old man.” He looks down at Red with a friendly grin. “So. Your friend. The one who owns the house. Just a friend?”

            “Yes,” Red says.

            Dagur doesn’t look like he believes him. Red scowls, and Dagur laughs again, as if they are old friends, and this is a conversation they’ve had before.

 

Red lays in bed that night. He was on the computer most of the evening. It took him awhile to figure out the internet, but once he did, he spent a few hours buying himself clothes and books. He doesn’t know how long they will take to get out here, or if he’ll have to go into town.

            If he does, he’ll ask Dagur. The man offered to take him if he ever needed anything.

            It is strange to Red. He could tell that the kindness was not because of his will. The man was just _friendly_. How did a person just…do that?

            He got home a half hour ago from slipping a net of thought around the rest of town. He appreciates the offer from Dagur to speak to people, but Red would rather be on the safe side. Red slipped inside fifty eight minds and carefully whispered that the house is off limits unless they are invited. The man who lives there, the one with the face who looks female but is actually a man, wants to be left alone. He is not a mystery to be gossiped over. He’s just there, as unenigmatic as the water or the earth.

            It felt peculiar and almost…unsatisfying. To leave a suggestion in their minds that wasn’t meant to hurt them. HYDRA’s training is hard to shake, even now. He wasn’t enhanced to make the world a better place, even if that’s what they claimed. He was made to destroy the old order.

            It hadn’t occurred to the Avengers, either, to use his powers for anything other than combat. Steve had been opposed to him using his will. He had only ever wanted Red to use his physical abilities. As if using his mind gave him too much of an advantage, and working only in the physical realm levelled the playing field.

            This from a man who Red knew had once held down a helicopter to keep it from taking off.

            _What is my use_?

            He has thought it before. He had been a guerilla, he had been a miracle for HYDRA, he had been a weapon for SHIELD—now what was his purpose? Every person needed one. Otherwise they were merely existing. Red had not been raised to be lazy, to take things laying down. Lately, though, laying down seemed to be the only thing he wants to do.

            He is suddenly reminded of a conversation he had with Sam. He’d only been with the Avengers for a month. It was a decision he did not really think about. It was only Red continuing on the trajectory he had taken when he emerged from that bullet strewn room after Barton. Barton said that if he left, he would be an Avenger, and so that was what Red continued to be. He’d been cast so suddenly adrift, half a person, he had simply gone where inertia took him.

            He’d been in one of the training rooms long past dinner, when he knew everyone else was upstairs doing whatever it was that superheroes did when they weren’t here, but he couldn’t do that. He had to be here. He had to prepare, he had to do something, anything.

            He had been at the edge of his strength. For hours, he had been throwing energy balls, throwing Stark’s training robots off their feet, floating up to Barton’s perch and then jumping off only to catch himself at the last second. He’d been soaked with sweat, but he couldn’t stop himself. All he could do was work, and work, and work, because otherwise he would have to _think_ —

            “Hey.”

            Red spun, throwing such a hard burst of energy forward that the wall cracked where Sam stood only a second before. The man had leapt out of the way at the last moment. He rolled, coming to sit on his ass with his legs spread out.

            They stared at each other a second, then Red turned. “Sloppy. You know better than to come in here when the light is on.”

            He pulled his hair off his neck, turning upside down to twist it all up. Sam said, “Yeah Sam, real sorry I almost put you through the concrete. That would have been awkward. Guess I’ll remember I’m not in hostile territory next time.”

            Sam was usually fairly even tempered, but Red could hear the strain there. It had been close. They both knew it had been very close.

            Pushing his hair into a bun, Red turned back around. “What do you want?”

            Sam leaned back on his hands, like he’d meant to land in that position the entire time. “Missed you at dinner.”

            Red barked lightly, starting to catch his breath. “Yes. I’m sure I was missed.”

            “Everybody’s still getting to know each other. The early crew—they know each other, sure. But the new guard—we’re all settling in. I’m not used to it here either. Hell, a month ago I was eating with a demi god. It’s weird, isn’t it.”

            Red didn’t bother responding. He didn’t do small talk.

            “You know, you can’t hide in here forever.”

            He nodded, and replied, “Am I hiding?”

            “Yeah. And you know it, and everybody else knows it too. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. All you’ve been through…. I’m just saying, at some point, you’re gonna have to _stop_.”

            “Stop what?”

            “Just stop. And you’re gonna have to think about what’s happened. That’s inevitable. I’m not saying that’ll be easy. It’ll probably hurt worse than this does. But it’s necessary. And I want you to know that I’ll be there, when it happens.”

            “This is because I do not see the doctor anymore. You want me to talk about my feelings.”

            Sam shook his head. “No. What I want is to know that I can trust my teammates. Right now, you’re so fried that I don’t know how much good you’ll be when the mission comes.”

            Red was furious at him for it. Then there was the piece of him that knew it was true. “And what should I do? Instead of this? Just lay down? Cry?”

            “What would be so bad about that?” Sam replied.

            _Because I would never get up_.

            Sam was watching him. For a moment, Red wondered if he _was_ a person who understood, even a little. But then Sam said, “Have you talked to anyone about your brother?”

            Like that, all of Red’s doors closed. Bending down to tighten his shoelaces, he murmured, “You forgot your wings.”

            “What about them?”

            Straightening, Red gave him a flat gaze. “Your wings, and your guns. You forgot that you’d need them, if you _ever_ mention my brother.”

            He turned his back, and gathered a ball in his hand, and destroyed one of the training robots with one blow.

            Now, here he was. In his bed. Laying down. Doing nothing except…be.

            How long is that supposed to go on for? How long can he just do nothing? A person needs a purpose.

            What purpose does he have now that there is no mission?

            He remembers with a shudder that the same question came off the Winter Soldier. That dead thing wearing the face of Steve’s friend. In Wakanda, before they froze him, Red had walked by him one night, and had felt the usual sick hollow of him, but in the center of the absence was the question: what am I without a mission?

            “I am me,” Red says.

            He startles himself. He’s spoken into the empty, silent room.

            Swallowing, Red tries it again. “I am me.”

            He is not the Winter Soldier. He is not a weapon. Or he’s not _only_ a weapon. He was a person, back before all this madness began. He has never been normal, but he had been someone. And he is someone now.

            He will figure this out. And he does not have to rush.

            If there is nothing to fight for, then he does not have to place himself under the crushing pressure he’s lived under his entire life. No bombs are coming. No men in metal suits. No scientists. No one’s coming.

            So he has time.

            Red doesn’t know what to do with time. He realizes for the first time how deeply he’s believed that he would die young. It’s a thing he has known, but he didn’t know how rigidly it was planted until the alternative opens before him.

            What if he _lives_?

            Red takes a deep breath.

 

 

 


	10. I Want People to See You As I See You

It’s so strange to hear the knock at the door. Only Dagur comes to the door, and that’s because he has been invited. But Red knows who’s coming.

            Brushing his hands over himself, he leans forward to make sure there’s nothing in his teeth. Nope. He turns his head side to side, studying himself in the mirror. No. He looks quite well.

            He steps back to give himself a quick once over. He is in all black today. Skinny jeans with a slim tee tucked in, studded suspenders over that, and boots that go almost up to his knees. He’s wearing his rings, and his hair falls over his forehead.

            _Not bad_ , Red tells himself, which is new. It is only recently that he’s been able to look in the mirror and not hate the sight of his own face.

            Leaving the bathroom, he hears another gentle knock at the door. He realizes he’s smiling, and forces that to go away. Putting on a very serious face, he unlocks the door and opens it. “No,” he says.

            Vision stands there, taken aback. “Have—I made an error?”

            “Yes. This is your house. You don’t need to wait to be invited in.”

            It has been a month since Red has seen him. Vision was able to come by—briefly—one evening, but he was on his way back to the compound from England, and he was on a short leash since Sokovia.

            “What did you tell them?” Red had asked, worried.

            “Nothing,” Vision said, for some reason amused.

            “What?”

            “It was actually quite easy. I didn’t even have to lie.”

            “How?”

            “They asked me where Wanda was. I told them I didn’t know. After all—you’re not Wanda.”

            Red had been so pleased that his mouth had split into a grin.

            Vision looks around, mouth slightly open, then says, “This is _your_ home—“

            “You paid for it—“

            “But you reside here. It’s—my gift to you. And we—discussed this many times. I’m not supposed to just come in unless you invite me.”

            Red rolls his eyes. “That was my bedroom, and you walked through my walls. This is different. This is your home—“ Before Vision can argue, Red says, “And my home too. This is our home. So this is what you’re going to do. You knock on the door, yes? But then you just come in. Do not wait for me to say it is all right. You knock, and you come in, and you say, ‘I’m home.’ Can you do that?”

            Vision is staring at him slightly. Red wonders a moment what he’s said, but his heart is beating a little faster too. It’s because this is the routine he had with Pietro. They would walk through the door, and they would say, “I’m home.”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. We practice.” Red closes the door on him.

            Stepping back a few feet, he sticks his hands in his pocket, and waits.

            He waits a good five seconds before Vision says through the door, “Should I--?”

            Red drops his head a moment. “Yes.”

            There is a knock at the door, then it carefully opens. Vision steps inside, tall, lovely, cape fluttering down his sides. He shuts the door with the ends of his fingers, then glances at Red before saying, “I am home.”

            He looks at Red for affirmation, that look he gets when he knows perhaps he is doing something he doesn’t quite understand.

            “Very natural,” Red says flatly. “An excellent performance.”

            Vision points at the door. “Should I try again—“

            Red cracks, and laughs. “No,” he says, stepping forward. “No, I’m only teasing.”

            “Ah.” Vision frowns. “I used to be better at discerning when that was the case.”

            “We used to see one another every day. Perhaps you have started to forget me.”

            “Never,” he says, and Red gets that peculiar, sickly feeling down the center of his chest that he’s only ever felt for this person.

            Uncertain a moment, Red asks, “May I hug you?”

            “I would like that.”

            He loves how Vision will put his arms out for him. His arms straight, his wrists and hands in line with them. It’s only when he has Red in his arms that they curve, and mould against his body.

            Red does not think Vision has ever embraced anyone other than him. He knows he should pity Vision for this, but instead he feels a possessive claim, and a pride that this distinction is his.

            He puts his ear to Vision’s chest, listening to the always steady pulse of his heart. He closes his eyes when Vision strokes his hair. He doesn’t know if it means anything to Vision, but it means a great deal to him.

            Red puts his hands to Vision’s sides, making himself step away from him. Vision never pushes him away. Red doesn’t think he knows how long friends are supposed to hold onto each other. It’s not like Red is sure either, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself. Maybe he already is by asking so eagerly for a hug.

            Vision puts his hands on Red’s shoulders, bending down to study his face. Surprised, Red blinks, but he stands still for inspection.

            Whatever Vision finds seems to please him, and he stands back up, withdrawing his hands. “You seem happier than the last time I saw you.”

            “I am.”

            “You’ve put on weight.”

            “I have.”

            “And you have new clothes.”

            “I do.”

            “I brought some things for you,” Vision says, reaching for the door.

            “Wait,” Red says, and he does. Red wants to bounce on the soles of his feet, even though to do so would be extraordinarily childish. He inhales. “I want to give you something.”

            Vision turns back to him. “A gift?”

            Red nods. “Yes. I want to give you a gift.” He can’t contain his anticipation. “I want to give you something—I don’t think you’ve ever had before.”

           

They are no more than sixty feet from the house when Vision stops. Red knew this was coming. He stops too, and looks at him.

            Vision gazes at the village, where they are headed, and then turns to Red, perplexed. “You know I cannot enter the town,” he says carefully.

            “Yes you can.”

            “I’ll be recognized. I’m rather visible.” He gestures to his sweater. “Change of clothing regardless, this—“ His hand raises to his face. “Is not so easily shed.”

            “You’ll be fine,” Red says. “Trust me.”

            Vision does not move. Red feels his caution, his concern.

            “Do you trust me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then come with me.”

            Red does not realize he’s held out his hand until it’s actually in the air. He means to take it back, but Vision reaches for it. His hand wraps around Red’s, and they clasp together. Somehow, his long thin hand and Red’s petite one fit together perfectly, Red’s inside Vision’s. Red can feel the dryness of Vision’s palm against his, and begins to blush.

            Without a word, he turns and tugs him forwards, toward the village.

           

They meet Finnbjörn Guðfinnsson first. He’s walking his dog out across the grass. He has no English, so he just waves and says, “Sæll.”

            Red waves back and says, “Sæll.”

            He feels Vision looking back as they pass the man, who is more concerned with his dog than the two of them. “What have you done?” Vision murmurs.

            Red shrugs. “Nothing. I thought you chose this town because they were all used to men with red and silver skin.”

            A few seconds go by, and Vision says, “This is not—a good idea.”

            “It’s an excellent idea,” Red counters. He holds firm to Vision’s hand, because he doesn’t know if he will ever be allowed to do this again. It has occurred to him that Vision may not be very pleased with his gift.

            They come across a few more people as they walk through the village. Most just nod, but the ones who can speak English say their hellos, and Red says hello back.

            Tinna’s outside the store, and says, “Red, who’s your handsome friend?” This is saying something, because Red has noticed that almost everyone in this country is gorgeous.

            “Tinna, this is V. V, this is Tinna. We’re going to have lunch. Maybe we come by later.”

            Red lets go of Vision, and opens the restaurant door for him. Vision looks momentarily stricken, then steps inside. Red follows him, shutting the door.

            The place is full. And for a beat, it goes quiet, as everyone turns to look. Red sees Vision tense, sees the pressure placed on the back of his foot as he prepares to take them both and flee.

            Red sighs and says loudly, “What? Did your mothers never teach you it is rude to stare?” There is laughter, and he waves them on to go back to their meals. “Over here.”

            Dagur’s laughing as they come to meet him. “And here I used to think you were shy,” he says. He sticks out amongst the others almost as much as Vision does. Red hasn’t seen another fat person in the village, and would wonder at how these thin, healthy people ever trusted Dagur as a doctor if he’d not borne witness to his skills.

            “I am not shy,” Red says. He pulls out a chair for Vision, and then sits down by the wall. Vision is being slow, trying to take in whatever is happening, but he sits. Red props his arm on the back of his chair, almost seated sideways. “So, Dagur, this is my friend V. V, this is my friend Dagur.”

            Dagur reaches out his massive hand. “Welcome. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

            Vision looks at his hand, then shakes it. “And yourself.”

            With an impressed face, Dagur says to Red, “English. You didn’t tell me he was English.”

            “He’s not,” Red says.

            “He sounds English.”

            Shrugging, Red says, “He’s from a little bit all over. Would you say that is correct, V?”

            Vision is still looking around warily. “I suppose.”

            Dagur glances at Red, then asks, “Is everything all right?”

            Red leans against the wall, watching Vision take things in. He closes his eyes in frustration when Vision says, “No.” Vision turns to him. “What have you done to them?”

            Red sighs. “Nothing.”

            “It’s rather clear you have.”

            “Done to us?” Dagur asks. “Red, does your friend need a doctor? I hear one is nearby.”

            Vision is gazing at him. Holding his eyes, Red says, “Dagur, would you humor me?”

            “I usually do.”

            “When you look at my friend, what do you see? Describe him.”

            “Why would I—right, I’m humoring you. I see a man, maybe between your age and mine. He’s wearing a black sweater. He has red skin and silver things on his head instead of ears.” Vision turns to him, pupils dilating. Dagur shrugs. “Some kind of yellow thing on his forehead. Attractive. I’d say you’ve done well for yourself, Red.”

            “And what do you see when you look at me?”

            “I see a young man in desperate need of something to wear other than red and black. But at least it appears that the two of you will match.”

            Vision turns back to Red, staring. Exhaling through his nose, Red says, “Dagur, my friend’s upset about something and wants to talk to me alone for a moment. Will Bjarni mind if you go in the kitchen for a couple minutes?”

            “Probably, but I will anyways.” Dagur gets to his feet, frowning. “Your friend is even stranger than you told me he would be.”

            “Trust me,” Red says. “You have no idea.”

            They wait until Dagur has left the table before Vision turns in his seat. “What have you done to these people?” he says in an urgent murmur.

            “You remember how I said I couldn’t control other people’s fear? As it turns out, I can.”

            “You need to stop this—“

            Red shakes his head. “No. This is my home. This is where I live. This is the only option.”

            “This is not an option—“

            “It is when the world knows your face and you’re hiding.” Red leans forward. “Tell me what my other option is. Tell me how I hide from everyone who wants to—put me in prison, or tear me apart. The people who would take off my skin and study my bones, just to try and make others like me. How do I hide from that, when the world knows my face?”

            Vision sighs, grimacing. “Coercing others into believing a fiction—“

            “I have not,” Red insists. “I have not done this.”

            “They think I am—“

            “ _You_ ,” Red says desperately. “Did you not say to me, you wished the world saw me as you see me? Do you think that I don’t want that for you? People look at you and they—they stare. They are afraid, because they don’t understand. If they stare at me, they are right to, because I am a monster. But they fear you because they don’t understand. I don’t want that for you. Here—here, we’re just like everyone else. They don’t stare at you, because you’re different, they look because you’re new, and they want to know about you. I want that for you. I wanted to give that to you.”

            Vision is unyielding. “This is not real. You should not have done this to them—“

            “All I did was convince them that we are not to be stared at.”

            “You manipulated them into believing a thing without their consent.”

            “Tell me the alternative. Tell me how I survive when at any moment, if I don’t do this, one of them recognizes me? One of them says, _that’s her_ , and it’s me, they mean me, and they mean _her_. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” Vision pauses, and Red presses, “Do I never speak to anyone again? Do I not see another person again because I’m afraid of what they could do to me? There are fifty eight people in this town, and the only thing I have told them is that I’m no one, and they don’t have to be afraid of me. Why is that such a sin? Of all the crimes I’ve committed, how is this so terrible?”

            “You once believed you were right to plant other ideas in people’s heads,” Vision says. “What were the results of that?”

            He feels the colour draining in his face. Turning fully in his seat, he says, “So to you, there’s no distinction between this and attacking the others?”

            Vision grimaces. “There—are lines that should not—“

            “You don’t know,” Red whispers grimly. “You _don’t_ know what you’re talking about.” He sits back, crossing his arms, and looks down at the table. “This is what I am. This is what I do to survive. If you do not care for it, you do not have to be here.”

            He hears Vision sigh. “Red—we have so little time together—“

            “Yes, and you are not the one who has to stay here. I am. I’ve made it so that I’m safe here, and it is not your place to judge me. I will not undo what I have done.”

            “It isn’t real.”

            “Is it real that they should stare at me? Fear me? Is that what you think of me?” He waits for Vision to tell him ‘no,’ to agree that they shouldn’t stare, that they shouldn’t be afraid. But Vision doesn’t speak. That sickly thing turns into an outright crack, and Red lets himself turn numb. “Go.”

            They do nothing for a moment, either one of them.

            Red closes his eyes, and when they open again, they’re red. “ _Go_.”

            Vision pushes himself up and leaves.

            He hears the restaurant go quiet for a second, and he knows people are turning to look at him. Red wraps his arms around himself, focusing on the grain in the tabletop. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

            A few minutes pass, and a familar body settles down next to him. “Your friend didn’t want to try the lamb?”

            “No,” Red says. “He has pitiful taste.”

            “He’s gone back to the house?”

            “No, he’s just gone.”

            “That’s not very polite.”

            “He’s mad at me. That’s fine. I’m mad at him.”

            “And why are you mad at each other?”

            “He thinks I should be a saint. I think I’m tired of being around people who’re convinced they’re always right.”

            Dagur exhales, then does a drum roll on his stomach. “Well, that just means more cake for me when we go to Bjarni’s later, yes?”

            “I don’t know if—“

            He elbows Red, who has gotten used to it. “No, you say ‘yes,’ pretty boy. Repeat after Uncle Dagur. Yes, I’ll come over for cake instead of hiding in my house.”

            Red doesn’t speak at first. Then he looks at Dagur, and asks, “Can—I have a hug?”

            The older man looks surprised at first, big bushy eyebrows lifting, then he holds out an arm. Red just leans against his side. This man is warm and soft and smells like middle age. Dagur pats him heavily on the arm and says, “There there, pretty boy. Like could always be worse.”

            “How?”

            “There could be trolls.”

 

The first time Vision came through his bedroom wall, Red was only in his boxers and a bra.

            “The fuck!” Red yelled in Sokovian, grabbing a pillow and putting it in front of himself. He was so embarrassed that his first instinct was to cover himself and not throw the man through the plaster.

            The man with red and silver skin looked at him curiously. “Is this a bad time?”

            Switching to English, Red yelped, “Do you know what a fucking door is?”

            “Indeed,” Vision said, pointing to it.

            “Then learn how to use it!”

            “Ah. Yes. Next time I shall come through the door.”

            Red waited for him to leave, but the man who wasn’t really a man, who wasn’t really human, just stood staring at him without blinking. “Why are you still standing there?”

            “I needed to ask you something—“

            “That wasn’t a fucking question!”

            “It was. I could tell by the inflection.”

            “No!” Red shouted.

            “You’re distressed.”

            “Of course I am distressed, some strange man just walked through my walls while I’m naked!”

            Tilting his head, Vision said, “You are not naked. You’re wearing several articles of clothing—“

            “Get out!” Red finally yelled, his eyesight going red. “Get out get out get out!”

            Perplexed, Vision said, “Very well,” and walked back through the wall the way he came. Red stood there, livid and breathing heavily.

            Hissing, he muttered, “Stupid fucking androids and their stupid fucking—stupidity—agh!”

            Half an hour later, he went to leave his room. The second he opened his door, Vision was standing there, waiting less than a foot away.

            Startling, Red said, “What—what is _wrong_ with you?”

            Looking down at himself, Vision said, “I’m actually quite well.”

            “You can’t—you can’t just—“ Red put up a hand, trying to push his anger back down deep. When he was seeing normally again, he put both hands out, and moved Vision bodily, flesh on flesh, backwards about two feet from him. “That is how far you stand from me. You need me, you knock on this door, and then you step back to here. Understood?”

            “Yes.”

            “I understand that you do not understand people, but this is not my problem.”

            “I did not ask for it to be.”

            “Why are you standing outside my door?”

            “I want to go into town to purchase orange juice. Sam has finished all of it, but Colonel Rhodes is fond of it as well. I thought perhaps we would avoid a conflict if someone replaced the orange juice.”

            Red stared at him. “You want to go to town…to buy orange juice.”

            “Yes.”

            Furrowing his brow, Red asked, “Why wouldn’t you just tell Sam to go get it?”

            “He’s occupied with some repairs on his wings. I am capable of executing this task.”

            Sure he was. And sure he wasn’t going to stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like it was any of Red’s concern, if he wanted to make this mistake. “Fine. You want to get orange juice. I still do not understand why you have to walk in on me while I’m naked.”

            “Again, you clearly had on several articles of—“

            Red said abruptly, “It is inappropriate to walk into my room when I am not fully dressed.”

            “Why?”

            He pursed his lips, and took a deep breath. It was like talking to a child. A very tall, often brilliant child. “Not everyone is comfortable with their body. I am not. You do not need to understand why, you only need to respect that I require privacy.”

            Vision thought a moment, then nodded. “Very well. I will not enter your room when you are not fully dressed.”

            “Yes. Well—we can discuss it more later. Why are you here?”

            “I hoped you would accompany me.”

            If he stared before, now he outright gaped. “What?”

            “I hoped you would accompany me to town. I have not been before, and I do not believe you have either. The others are occupied, but I saw that you were not, and I thought that we could—“ He thought a moment, then said carefully, “Run an errand together.”

            It was bizarre. Red didn’t know what to do. “Did Rogers put you up to this?”

            “Captain Rogers did not mention this to me, no. He did request that everyone try to engage you in conversation, since you are so isolated. In a way, I suppose that I am fulfilling that request. However, it was not my first thought when the idea occurred to me. I merely decided to—run an errand, and I know that I need a person with me. I’m afraid I don’t understand humans very well yet.” He smiled wryly. “As perhaps this encounter demonstrates.”

            Red wrapped his arms around himself. He hadn’t left the compound by himself. He had not seen America outside of these few dozen acres.

            _Are you scared, Pietro_?

            “Fine,” he said sharply. “Fine. We go to town to buy orange juice.”

            “Excellent.” Vision held out his arms. “I can carry you now or, if you prefer, we could wait until we are outdoors.”

            “Why would you carry me?”

            Retracting his hands, he asked, “Do you prefer to fly yourself?”

            Red gazed at him, biting his lower lip, and said, “Perhaps we take car?”

            “Ah. Perhaps that would be less conspicuous.” Vision cringed. “I possess the knowledge required to drive a vehicle, but I’m afraid I have no driver’s license.”

            “No,” Red said, “you wouldn’t. You are a minor.”

            And something about his smile made Red feel strange. It wasn’t a smirk, it wasn’t with a glance around as if checking to see if he was serious—Vision’s smile was pure. No one ever smiled at Red like that.

            Red nodded down the hall, brushing aside the feeling. “Come. We take car. And you drive.”

            Vision walked alongside him. “But I don’t possess a driver’s license.”

            “Yes, well—how many people here are licensed for _any_ of the things they do?”

            And Vision actually thought about it and said, “That is indeed accurate.”

            When they were checking out the car, the agent seemed disinclined at first to agree. But Red said, “Vision, look over there.”

            The man turned. “What am I looking at?”

            Red hit the SHIELD agent with a string of thought, then said, “Nothing. I thought I saw a bird.”

            “Why would that be important?” Vision asked. “Do you—like birds?”

            “Well,” the agent says, “looks like everything’s in order.” He held out the keys. Red grabbed them, and yanked Vision after him.

            When they were in the car, Vision said, “He seemed to change his mind rather quickly.”

            “This is a thing you should know about people,” Red replied, pulling across his seatbelt. “They are _always_ changing their minds.”

            They drove out of the compound, Red subtly distracting anyone who would feel inclined to stop them. Once they were past the gates, he took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or slightly terrified that he was finally outside of the compound.

            Vision was an excellent driver. He obeyed all the laws, and his eyes were always moving between the mirrors, ceaselessly checking. Red ignored him, and watched the world pass.

            It was so green. A light, vibrant green. He was used to the brittle tans of Sokovia. This seemed like almost too much colour. The roads were smooth and well maintained, and the sky above was the kind of blue Kamaj only saw once or twice a month.

            They drove for two hours in silence after Red said that he didn’t feel like talking. It was agreed upon that everyone had to drive two hours away from the compound if they were shopping. The Avengers facility was supposed to be a secret.

            _No idea how much of a secret it will be once he steps out of this car_.

            The town they came to was called Rutherford, population 3231.  It looked like something out of an American movie. It was too well kept to be real. Where were the crumbling walls? The rust? The feral cats? It looked like an idea of a town instead of a place where people actually lived.

            They came to a red light, and Vision obligingly brought the car to a stop. Red couldn’t help his nervousness. This was unfamiliar to him. It all looked so clean and cheerful. This couldn’t be real.

            From the corner of his eye, he saw Vision lift a hand and wave. He looked over. Across the street, two teenage boys were gawking at them. Rolling his eyes, Red muttered, “Put your hand down. They’re only looking because they’re scared of you.”

            “I know.”

            Red glanced at him. Vision calmly put his hand back on the wheel, and when the light changed, took them through the intersection.

            They ended up at what they called a catch-all back home. Vision asked if that was the same thing as a convenience store, and Red asked, “If they sell artificial flowers you can make the drug pipes out of, then yes.”

            They got inside, and one of the first things Red saw was the plastic tubes that you could convert into a pipe for smoking meth. With a nod, he said, “Yes, a convenience store is the same as a catch-all.”

            The woman behind the counter was staring at them with an open mouth. “Good afternoon,” Vision said pleasantly.

            The woman didn’t reply, and Red murmured, “I’ll find the orange juice.”

            He went down the aisle, to where the fridges were. He was opening the door when the woman finally spoke. “Get out of here.”

            “I beg your pardon?” said Vision.

            “I don’t want people— _things_ —like you in here. You’re not welcome in here.”

            “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to frighten you. I know my appearance must be very difficult for you to contend with—“

            “I lived in New York. I came here to get away from things like you. I lost my husband—I lost him because you things killed him.”

            Red pulled the carton out of the fridge as Vision said, “Madam, if you’re referring to the Chitauri incursion, I can assure you I was not there when that occurred, though I know with certainty my colleagues did everything in their power to—“

            “Get out!” the woman screamed, and Vision recoiled.

            Red put the carton down hard on the counter. “My friend is being very nice and you are not,” he said. He let his eyes and body flood red, and lifted every single item in the store up three inches. “Fortunately, I am not nice either.” He pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

            The woman whispered, “I don’t—I don’t—“

            Red tossed one of the tens down on the counter, not knowing if that was enough, and picked up the orange juice. He passed it to Vision. The other man had been quite still. Moving past him, Red said, “Vision, we go now.”

            Vision cleared his throat, and said, “Have a nice day.” Red held the door open for him. Once he was outside, Red dropped everything with a thud, hearing something glass break at the back, and the woman let out a cry.

            Red got into the car as Vision slipped the keys back into the ignition. “We should leave,” Red said. “Quickly.”

            “Yes. Perhaps we should.”

            They were a half hour away from the town when Red said, “You never apologize to someone like that ever again.”

            “Pardon me?”

            “She yelled at you, called you a thing, and you apologized to her. You don’t apologize to anyone for who or what you are. Not ever.”

            “I distressed her.”

            “That is her problem, not yours. Why should you apologize to some crazy woman who wants to yell at you for something that happened—when you are not even born?”

            “I thought it would comfort her.”

            “It didn’t. It doesn’t help anyone to try and comfort people like that. They don’t want apologies, they only want to be angry. And how did it make you feel? Did it feel good to apologize to her? For something you had nothing to do with?”

            Vision thought, and said quietly, “It was a reaction. I don’t know…that I felt anything in the moment.”

            “Do you feel good about it now? Apologizing to her?”

            “I…am more concerned that I’ve upset you.”

            “Don’t be—do not worry about how others feel, don’t be worried if I am upset, I’m fine, I am—absolutely fine—“

            Red realized his voice was raising, and red threads of energy were rising from his fingertips. He bit his lip, and settled back into his seat, pulling his powers back in.

            After a moment, Vision said, “I am a convenient target, because I don’t look like them. It doesn’t bother me. Not terribly. I am more concerned that you are upset.”

            Red looked at him, and said helplessly, “Why?”

            As lost as Red was, Vision replied, “I don’t know.”

 

Red picks up the button. He is curled up on the couch, under a quilt. It is late at night.

            He’s a little bit drunk. He stumbled home from Bjarni’s awhile ago, and didn’t get any further than the living room. They were all in good spirits, telling jokes, and then Dagur and Bjarni started getting handsy with each other, and Red made as swift and polite an exit as he could.

            He hadn’t even taken off his boots. He knows that will feel like a mistake in the morning.

            Red brings the button to his mouth, and pushes down.

            “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t wish to. If you’re busy right now, you don’t have to listen. You can record this and listen later. Or not. It isn’t important. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed in me. I know you wish I was a better person. But I’m not a good person. I’m just me. I can’t be anyone else. I’ve tried to be on sides, I’ve tried to do what’s right, and that didn’t work. Even when I’m just on my side, I do things that make you look at me like I’m awful. And I hate this. I don’t care how everyone else looks at me. I deserve how they look at me. But when you look at me and tell me I’m doing something wrong, I cannot bear it. You are my best friend. There is no one else who I care about more. I miss you so much, and I feel so badly that you did not stay. I wish so much that you had stayed.

            “I won’t undo it. I can’t. I know that you don’t understand. That you think I can’t control myself, that I’ve built a fictional world around myself. Is that…because you think other people would not like me? If I did not make them? I thought this too. I checked. And then I checked and then I checked again to make sure that was what I was not doing. But it wasn’t me. I made them not be afraid of me, but that was all. They were kind to me just because…they were kind. Because they liked me. I don’t blame you for thinking that people wouldn’t like me. I don’t like me much either.

            “We’re different, you and I. You’ve never known what it’s like to be…invisible. I spent so long thinking that was a terrible thing. I thought that made me useless. It wasn’t until HYDRA…until after my brother…that I realized what an awful thing I have done to myself. People will never not know what I’ve done. They will stare. I make one mistake, and they will come for me. But it’s not just me they’ll come for. They’ll come thinking they’ll find her. But there’s no her. There’s just me. I want to be safe. I want to be invisible again. I’ve always been a freak, but at least I was an invisible freak.

            “I wanted you to know…what it felt like to be like other people. For a little while. All you’ve ever known is people who stare. I don’t want people to stare at you. I don’t want people to be afraid of you. I can’t stand that they’re afraid of you. You are the kindest…the bravest….”

            Red shuts his eyes, sighing. “You can pretend I didn’t say any of this if you like. I am a bit drunk right now. I just wish you were here with me. I’m laying down on the couch, where you’re supposed to be right now. You’re supposed to be here with me. Only I’m a monster, so you’re not. I can’t ever be perfect for you. I can’t even be right. I wish I could. But I can’t. You are perfect. But I can’t be perfect for you. And I’m sorry. Bye.”

            He drops the button on the floor. He turns his head further into the pillow, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you leave kudos or bookmark this, I'm always over the moon. If you leave comments, I basically smother you in my gratitude. Not sure if that appeals to you, but it does to me.


	11. Nameless Cities and the Point of No Return

Ultron said, “It could have been worse.”

            Red and Pietro both looked up at him. Red’s head was splitting, and he had already thrown up twice during the flight. “Really,” he said flatly.

            Pietro was rubbing his back. He hadn’t left Red’s side since pulling him away from Barton.

            The robot—the massive, shining, deadly machine—shrugged. “Absolutely. We got the vibranium and we thoroughly demoralized Stark and his band of merry men. All in all, a raging success.”

            Staring at him, hanging between his knees, Red asked, “Have you ever had an electric arrow stuck in the middle of your head?”

            “No, I’m afraid I have not.”

            “Then perhaps we redefine the word ‘success.’”

            “Oh, you’re fine. Tell me it’s not your pride that’s more wounded than anything else. This is the first time anyone’s ever hit you before you could hit them, isn’t it.”

            “My head hurts worse than my pride.”

            “Come on, Wanda. You just gave four of the Avengers the worst nightmare of their life. Now is a time to celebrate.”

            Pointing to himself, Red said, “When I can hear myself think without my brain coming out of my ears, yes. Then we celebrate. For now--?” He gave the robot a threatening look.

            But Ultron only chuckled. He pushed himself to his feet, heading towards the cockpit. “A success,” he said.

            “You cut off a man’s arm,” Pietro said.

            “I also gave him a billion dollars. He’s a businessman. He’ll see that it’s a fair trade.”

            Red rubbed at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. The electric shock to his head had been bad enough. They had shocked him all the time at HYDRA. That he had gotten at least partially used to. But doing the Hulk so soon after—that perhaps had been unwise.

            “Are you okay?” Pietro whispered.

            “You don’t need to hover. I’m fine.”

            “You look like you’re about to vomit all over me again.”

            “I did not vomit all over you. I vomited on your shoes.”

            “I liked those shoes. They were my Adidas.”

            “In the new world, I promise, I will buy you all the Adidas that you like. We will make sure that they _only_ make Adidas.” He felt dismay lingering around his brother, and hissed, “What? Will you stop fretting, it hurts me—“

            Pietro was quick to say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, brother.” He continued to rub Red’s back in circles. He really did treat him like a girl sometimes. Red didn’t mind. He knew Pietro was worried. Pietro lowered his voice. “You…did not tell me.”

            “Tell you what?”

            “Where you were sending the Hulk.”

            “I did as I was told.” Red let out a moan. “Pietro, stop, my head—“

            “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—we said—we _promised_ that we wouldn’t kill anyone. It’s a promise you wanted us to make.”

            “And it was naïve.” He felt Pietro’s revulsion like a sliver in his brain, and leaned away from him. “Oh, you must…you must….”

            “Shh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I will not judge. We…we will do what we must.” Pietro gulped, Red could almost feel the action in his own throat. “In the end, it will be a better world. There will be peace in the new world.”

            His head bouncing with pain and misfiring neurons, Red asked himself for the first time since joining Ultron’s crusade: _how are we being so naïve again_? But it was a momentary thought, the pain taking precedence again.

            He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I’ve taken Stark before. I took Thor. I took Rogers. I took the Widow. I even took the fucking Hulk. And _Barton_ finishes me off. _Barton_.”

            “This is true.” Pietro leaned over and whispered, “He doesn’t even use a gun.”

            “Don’t rub it in.”

            Pietro patted his back. “Captain America punched me.”

            “Good.”

            “Hey.”

            “Maybe he just thought he could knock that bleach out of your hair.”

            “You are funny, you know that? So funny.” Pietro sighed, wistfully. “I almost had Thor’s hammer.”

            Red barked, but it hurt so much that he put his head between his knees and groaned for the rest of the ride to Korea.

            It wasn’t until later that Red realized he thought of the whole thing as what happened in Wakanda. He couldn’t remember the name of the city he let the Hulk loose in.

 

It wasn’t long after that, only days. They were in a city they didn’t know and a language they didn’t understand rose and chattered around them and they were both terrified.

            Red was _terrified_.

            He had known there would be casualties. He had not dwelled on it, because he was a student of HYDRA, a creation of HYDRA, and it was an inevitability. People had to die so that others could live.

            But not _all_. Ultron intended to kill them all. Every child. Every adult. Everything flesh would perish in the holocaust that was to come, and all at the hands of that thing in the cradle.

            _I’ve created the apocalypse_ , Red thought, dazed. He was gripping Pietro’s hand, because he didn’t know if he could stand otherwise.

            It was minutes after they escaped the lab. Red didn’t know what was going to happen.

            Other than they were all going to die.

            He looked at the faces around him. That woman was going to die—and that man—and that man—and that little boy—

            Everyone was going to die. Because he infected Stark with a nightmare that would not stop until it destroyed everything.

            _Is that what I wanted?_ Red wondered hysterically. _Is that what I am?_

            He had brought about the end of the world, without even realizing what he was doing. All that anger, all that pain, he had channeled into Stark, and this was the end result. No more bad dreams, no more war—but no more _anything else_ either. A dead world, where only metal reigned.

            Red’s knees began to buckle. Pietro grabbed him. They stood on the sidewalk, next to a fruit vendor, and Red looked up into his brother’s eyes. He tried to find some comfort, some reassurance. His brother would tell him everything was all right. He would. He always had, and always would.

            Pietro stared at him, petrified and lost.

            _He tried to tell me and I didn’t listen._

            Red struggled to come up with a plan. They had to do something. They had to act. But they’d barely escaped the lab in one piece, surrounded by Ultron the entire time. Somehow, they had to destroy the cradle.

            Good God above, if it took Red throwing himself at the building like a bomb, he’d do it. Anything to undo this disaster he had created.

            The mood around him changed. It was imperceptible at first, because it was worry and fear, and Red already felt plenty of that. When he realized that the others felt it too, he blinked, trying to find the source. Was Ultron coming? Already? Had he found them so soon?

            He looked at the television set. After a second, he squeezed Pietro’s wrist, and his brother turned to look.

            They watched together as Captain America fought Ultron on top of a truck.

            It clicked into place, softly, and Red couldn’t help but feel a hint of sickness along with the relief. He knew, immediately what had to be done.

            After all this time—all this preparation and focus and hatred—he knew what had to be done.

            He looked back at Pietro. His brother’s jaw was set. He could see the decision that had taken only a second in his mind struggling to be made in his brother’s.

            _Our loss does not matter. Not anymore. Not compared to everything else_.

            Red felt the second click, everything shifting, only this time in his other half. They were resolved.

            Pietro turned to him, and Red reached up for his brother to lift him. They had to join the others—their enemies so long, and now suddenly, in moments, their allies—as quickly as possible. They had to get to the Avengers, to help them stop Ultron, at all costs.

            But if Red had known his brother had a day left to live, he would have said that the cost was too high, even knowing that they would save the world they nearly destroyed. He would have let the world burn, so at least they would have burned together.

 

There are the days he thinks that.

            Then there are the days when he remembers that if none of it ever happened, Vision would not exist. Those are the days when he begs his brother for forgiveness. It is a blasphemy, to be glad his brother had gone, tied in the same fate that brought Vision to life. Red is never glad for it. Never.

            Only he is so grateful that Vision exists. And how can he be happy and heartbroken by the same chain of events? How does that work?

            How?


	12. Contact

He’s brushed his teeth three times and had multiple glasses of water and about a handful of ibuprofen, and the hangover is finally starting to subside.

            Red stands at the kitchen sink, slowly sipping away at another glass of water. He didn’t realize how much of a lightweight he’d become. But then he remembers how little alcohol there was at the Avengers compound, and he’d never gone looking for any in Wakanda.

            He puts his elbows on the counter, closing his eyes.

            He finds himself suddenly wondering about Sam and Steve. If they’re all right. What trouble they’re getting themselves into. And out of. The Avengers always manage to survive, miraculously.

            His brother had gotten himself killed, but that was so an Avenger could live. That seemed to just be how the universe worked. God’s favoured children.

            Red is leaning over the sink when there’s a knock at the door. He’s so surprised that he doesn’t move right away. And he’s so startled when it unlocks and opens that he doesn’t go red, doesn’t even react.

            Vision steps inside. He closes the door. He looks at Red, and with an apologetic smile, says, “I’m home.”

            Red stares at him a moment, then turns back to the sink.

            “Is—that all right?”

            Red pours water onto his hand, and starts to smooth down what he knows is a spectacular case of bedhead. “Yesterday I looked good. Now I am in my pajamas, and you’re here. Of course. Of course!”

            He dumps the rest of the water in the sink, then uses both hands to slick his hair back as Vision says, “Should I go?”

            Red stands there, eyes closed, hands holding the top of his head. “If you try to, so help me, I will stop you. I know I said I would never do _that thing_ again to you, but if you leave I will.” He drops his hands with a sigh. “No I won’t. I’m tired and hungover and not being nice. Please, have a seat.”

            Vision goes to sit on the couch, his cape disappearing. Red pads across the kitchen and joins him. He wipes his hands off on his pants before he sits down.

            “Sorry about calling you when I was drunk,” Red says. “I know you probably didn’t want to hear from me.”

            “No. That was not the case.”

            Red leans against the arm of the couch. He’d like to be closer to Vision, but he knows Vision doesn’t think much of him right now.

            “It was stupid to take you into town,” Red murmurs. He shakes his head, angry with himself. “I should have known you would be upset. I don’t know why I did it.”

            “You were trying to show me something I hadn’t experienced before.”

            “The next time I have any bright ideas, I will keep them to myself.”

            Vision sits with shoulders slightly hunched. Red didn’t notice it at first, but he sees it now. He is so used to seeing Vision with his perfect posture. “I’ve only ever experienced life as…myself. To not have people look…or care…somehow felt unnatural. I was perturbed, so I drew a rather firm line.”

            “Everything is new to you. When you’re young…it all seems so clear. Then you get older, and you see how messy it is, and you think you understand that, but then you realize how absolutely out of control everything is. Enjoy this while you can. It just gets worse and worse and worse, over and over again.”

            He watches Vision open his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Vision folds his hands in his lap, squeezing and relaxing his hands. “Your message last night upset me rather deeply.”

            From him, that means Red basically took a knife and ran him through. Miserable, he asks, “Which part? Tell me, so I can start apologizing.”

            “No.” Vision closes his eyes. “ _No_.”

            Red suddenly feels his sorrow, his unhappiness. Pushing himself off the arm, he starts to reach out for him, and pauses. “Vision? What’s wrong?”

            He can’t help himself. He lays his hand on Vision’s back. Just like that, he feels a staccato flutter, and he has no idea which of them it comes from.

            Vision parts his eyes. “I am not perfect,” he says quietly.

            “Oh—Vision—“

            “You think I judge you by setting myself beside you as some matter of paragon, and that’s not—it is not how I feel. I have been—terribly arrogant in the past. I thought I was…logical. Untouchable. I never thought myself above humans, but I considered myself apart. I believed this because I did not fail, as they failed. I am synthetic. I was designed to be better.” He shakes his head. “But I am not.”

            Increasingly troubled, Red says, “My friend—“

            Vision says abruptly, “Do you know what happened to Colonel Rhodes?”

            Red nods. “Yes,” he says softly. “He was hurt in the fight.”

            “He is paralyzed from the waist down. Do you know why it happened?”

            “It was a fight—“

            “I was the one who injured Colonel Rhodes.”

            Red doesn’t understand. “You—why would you do that?”

            “You do not—understand. I was aiming for Falcon. Instead, I hit Colonel Rhodes. I _missed_.”

            Red raises his eyebrows. Taken aback may be too pat a phrase for it. What he feels might be closer to shock. “I—was not aware that was possible.”

            “Nor was I. As I said, I was arrogant.”

            Red hates to see him so upset with himself. “Vision—it was battle. People knew they were likely to be hurt. Did you _see_ what I did to Natasha—“

            “I made a mistake. I was made to be better, and yet—I made a mistake.” Vision looks across the room, as if he can see the scene play out before him once more. “I was distracted.”

            “Why were you distracted?” Vision closes his eyes again. Red presses, “Vision? Why were you distracted?”

            He can feel the war being fought inside Vision. He can actually hear _tell him, don’t tell him_ being thrown back and forth.

            Vision exhales, and admits, “You.” He lowers his head, as if he has done something he is ashamed of, or expects punishment for. “You—distract me.”

            Red gazes at him. He is unsure how to feel about this. Having Vision say this as a confession makes Red feel as if he’s done something wrong. But to also know that he can effect Vision so deeply—he is not so good a person that he doesn’t take some solace in that.

            “Why?” Red asks. “Why me?”

            Vision turns his eyes to him, brow creased. “You are unlike anyone I have ever known. People are vexing at the best of times, but they quickly conform to patterns, and I understand patterns. You are…unpredictable. Chaotic. I never know what you are going to do next. I…am in awe of your chaos.”

            Red pulls his hand away. “No one…no one wants chaos.”

            “Nor should anyone want order, not at all times. I abide by the rules and yet I find them to be often smothering. After Lagos, I wanted so badly to keep you safe. I did as Mr. Stark told me because I was so determined on keeping you out of harm’s way, even though I knew you might hate me for it.” He shakes his head, studying Red’s face. “But a thing is not beautiful because it is caged.”

            His breath catches in his throat.

            Red can feel small muscles vibrating in his face. He needs to speak. Vision’s silver and yellow eyes are unblinking, and Red knows how conversations work—one person says something, then the other replies—but how is he to reply to that?

            Haltingly, like he’s forgotten how to speak English, Red asks, “You…think I’m…beautiful?”

            “Always,” Vision breathes.

            Red can’t look at him. He swallows a little, even though his mouth has gone very dry. Maybe from hanging open so obviously.

            Vision takes his silence the wrong way, and says, “I do not mean beautiful in a gendered way. I use it specifically because it is not. I don’t say that you’re handsome because that’s not how your face has been made. I don’t say pretty because that doesn’t encompass it. I say beautiful because it is the only word I know that could possibly describe what I see when I look at you.”

            In a few words, Vision has basically cut Red open and pulled aside his skin to display him to the world. That is what it feels like. Red feels like a string still trembling at the end of a song.

            Red suddenly sucks in a deep breath, realizing he hasn’t let himself take in air.

            “M-may I ask a question?”

            “Yes, of course,” Vision replies, seeming less sure of himself than a moment before.

            He is so afraid that the answer will not be what he hopes that he has to push himself, hard, to even pose it. “Can—you love?”

            Vision looks at Red a long while, before replying, “Yes. I believe I can.” He tilts his head. “Can you?”

            Red is supposed to be a miracle. He was supposed to be remade from an ordinary little freak of a person into a miracle. What happened to him, what he’s become, is nothing compared to his answer. “Yes,” he whispers.

            “Do you?”

            He nods.

            Tentatively, he lifts his hand. Vision’s strange eyes flicker to it a moment, but return, drawn, to his face. Red watches his fingers. It is the hand on which he wears his mother’s rings. His fingers come so close that he’d swear he feels an electric field. Then he crosses the last millimetres, and touches Vision’s head.

            The both of them let out small sounds. Vision turns his head, hesitantly, into the touch. Red cups his hand to the smooth skin, the hard bone beneath the skin. _Not skin, not bone_ , he has to remind himself, _not entirely_ , but Red doesn’t care. He runs his hand down carefully, rubbing his thumb over the silver shape where an ear would be on a human. Vision’s eyelids flicker, and Red doesn’t know if it’s because that feels good, or if he simply hasn’t been touched there before.

            He runs his hand gingerly over the metal lines that come over his head, until they terminate at the yellow stone. Vision meets his eyes again, and Red asks, “May I?”

            After a moment’s thought, Vision nods, bending his head. More curious than afraid, Red lets his fingers drift down, and they graze the Mind Stone.

            He gets a hard flash, inside. For one perilous second, he is hanging in darkness, and then there is a bang and then there is _everything_.

            He is back on the couch, seeing the gem light—seeing Vision’s eyes fill yellow, and Red quickly snatches away his hand. When Vision’s eyes turn yellow, lasers usually follow. As soon as Red isn’t touching the stone, the thing dims, and Vision’s eyes return to their usual silver, tinged with yellow.

            “I was not aware it would do that,” Vision says, embarrassed. He taps it a few times to show how little an effect his own touch has on it.

            Red says, “Perhaps next time, we go outside. So if your eyes explode, we destroy the mountains instead of my house.”

            He smiles, like he always does at Red’s jokes, that sweet smile no one else gives him. Then his eyes lower, and he looks at Red’s hand.

            Like teenagers, they shyly reach for one another. Vision has never done this before, and Red has never cared about anyone like this before, so he figures it’s not too far off. Red puts his hand in Vision’s, then Vision puts another hand over his. So Red adds his other hand.

            They sit there, quietly, bashfully beaming, unable to really look at one another. Red has no idea what sex would even _look_ like with this man, and right now he doesn’t care. The contact is a high. To know that this man cares for him—perhaps even loves him—is worth more to him than all the ten second orgasms in the world. They hold their hands together, touching, too uncertain and pleased to do much more at first.

            Vision looks at him, though, and Red sees the question in his eyes: _what next_? So Red leans towards him a little more, parting his lips. Vision understands what he wants, but clearly has no idea about the mechanics of the thing. He opens his mouth slightly too, and bends down toward Red.

            Red tilts his head up, and kisses Vision’s lips. They are thin, not like his. Vision doesn’t know what to do, so Red does it for him. He brings the flesh of their mouths together, making contact, sending the message with touch how deep under he is for this man.

            He feels his power wanting to spill out of him, and he’s at the edges of his control, so he pulls away. Vision is all pupils, awestruck.

            “All right?” Red asks.

            “I…will clearly need much practice.”

            Red snorts. “Typical. Men. Always want more.”

            “No! That was very nice, I was just obviously rather abysmal, and yes, I understand you are teasing me, but—“

            “Vision.” The man silences, and Red wants to tell him, oh, he wants to tell him so many things. He is overflowing with all the things he wants to say to him, but he doesn’t know how to make him understand. Finally, he settles on, “I did not think…I would ever be happy again. But you—“ He squeezes their hands. “Make me very, very happy.”

            He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he does it. He climbs right into Vision’s lap, and buries his face against his chest.

            Vision puts his arms around Red, and says in a daze, “I am also—very pleased.”

            “Pleased?”

            “If I were a computer, I believe I would short circuit. If I was a man, my heart might explode out of my chest.”

            “Lay down with me,” Red pleads. “Hold me.”

            Vision lays them down. Red stays on top of him, nestled in his arms. They say nothing for a long, long time, both of them afraid and happy and unable to separate the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're pleased about this turn of events, your comments would be deeply treasured.   
> If you're not pleased, I'm just going to narrow my eyes at you.


	13. Let Us Count Our Sins

Red had been at the compound nearly a year when the moment finally came.

            He slipped downstairs, feeling the now familiar consciousness more than the others. It didn’t come here often. It wasn’t a mind he felt daily, like Steve or Vision’s, but it was a mind that his own found instinctively and latched onto.

            He had to go down deep, to the workshop that no one else was allowed into. It separated from the hallway by a glass wall. Red understood why glass—the man wanted to be seen. This was a man who had always _needed_ to be seen.

            Stark was seated in the middle of all the tables. They were filled with what looked like random pieces of hardware to Red, but he had never been very good with machines. To Stark it meant something. He had one of the Iron Man gloves in his hands, soldering it with complete concentration and no mask.

            _He’s not wearing a mask because he’s upset_.

            Red went to the wall beside the door. He put his hands against the glass, watching.

            In all this time, they had never been alone together. It was by design. At first, it had been a hard order from the Captain—do not engage with Stark. When they were in group gatherings, people always managed to get between the two of them. Sometimes, their eyes would meet, and he would feel that Stark knew it would happen eventually, but he let the others stay between them, and Red did too.

            After all, at first he thought he might implode the man with a thought.

            Red stayed there a few minutes, not knowing if he had been seen, until finally Stark sighed. He let his head fall back, and he said something to the computer. The door opened, and Red slipped inside.

            He approached cautiously. Stark wasn’t looking at him, just picking up other small, mechanical pieces.

            “At last,” Stark said, “the wicked witch of the eastern bloc. Finally found the ovaries to face the villain of your personal narrative, did you?”

            Red went to sit on a backless stool that faced Stark. The man was wearing an expensive suit, his sleeves rolled up. The coat had been carelessly thrown to the ground, left to wrinkle.

            Red looked at his face, and Stark glanced at him, reaching for another tool. His face looked…different. Red realized that the dye job wasn’t as perfect as before. There was a hint of grey in his goatee, but it was not flawless. It was like someone had forgotten to remind him to keep up the ridiculous practice. It had to be someone else’s oversight. Stark was such a narcissist that it could not have been his failing.

            “Not that I don’t consider myself a huge fan of those bug eyes, but why don’t you try spitting out whatever it is you want to say? It’ll make this go quicker.”

            He was mad. Mad at someone else, and it was putting an edge on his tone.

            Red looked around. It was ten at night. Red knew Stark had a home to go to. Why had he suddenly shown up here?

            His eyes closed briefly. “Ah. Your woman has left you.”

            He saw the quick flash of anger across Stark’s face before he picked up a screwdriver. “Congratulations. You’re a veritable Sherlock Holmes. And me without my cocaine.”

            “Why did she leave?”

            Stark just shook his head a moment, jiggling his knee as he did something to the glove. Then he said, “You’ve _met_ me before, right? I know you’ve got the whole sordid back story. And you can get in my head. I _know_ you can get in my head. So you tell me. Why did she leave me?”

            Red knew he should take some consolation in this man’s pain. For so many years, this man had been the symbol of everything that was wrong with the world.

            The last year had made things a lot less straightforward.

            Stark didn’t wait for him to say anything, because Stark was always happiest when he was the one talking. “Of course, that’s not what we’re calling it. That’s not what she’s calling it. Taking a break. That’s the phrase that’s managed to remain afloat in the pop culture consciousness for two decades, and has now wormed its vicious little way into my life. Taking a break. What do you think about that?”

            “About what?”

            “About that phrase. Taking a break.”

            Red was unfamiliar with it. “Taking a break from what?” he shrugged.

            “From being together. From loving each other.”

            Red frowned. “I do not think that if you really love someone, you can merely take a break from that. No, she has just left you.”

            Stark tossed up his hands. “Thank you. Thank you! Now, if only I could get the love of my life to recognize that instead of HYDRA’s prized pupil, then life would just be grand.”

            He bent over the glove as Red bristled. “I was not HYDRA’s prized pupil.”

            “Sister, you weren’t at the back of the class.”

            The word was like a lash. Red gazed at him, and couldn’t help himself. “The Winter Soldier,” he said. “The Winter Soldier was HYDRA’s best—creation.”

            Stark sat back, hefting the screwdriver. “Yeah, but here’s the thing. A long time ago, back when I was but a gleam in my pain in the ass father’s eye, there was a man named James Buchanan Barnes. And he was kidnapped—twice—and tortured by HYDRA until he broke. People break. That’s what they do. You—“ He pointed the screwdriver at Red. “Volunteered.”

            Volunteered. What a joke. Yeah, volunteer or get shot. “So I am worse than the Winter Soldier.”

            “Does that seem like my point? I feel like that could have been my point, but why don’t we both sit back and ponder the whole situation for a few moments.”

            The word ‘sister’ still niggling at Red’s consciousness, he said, “It is funny. That you mention your father and the Winter Soldier in the same sentence.”

            “Why? What does that mean?”

            Red smiled slightly. “Oh—nothing. Not a thing.”

            He cocked a few fingers, lifting a piece of metal off the table. He floated it in the air in front of himself, turning it over. Then he began to rip it down the middle, slowly, with a gentle graze of the other hand.

            Stark glanced at what he was doing, and tossed aside the screwdriver for another one. “Great. HYDRA agent, Avenger, and can opener. Why are you bothering me?”

            “You seemed to be in a good mood. So we can talk.”

            Easily, Stark shrugged. “You want to fight? Fine. We can fight. Let’s just do it. I’ll put on my suit, you put on your pointy hat to go along with the rest of that angsty young woman outfit you’ve got on, and we’ll just _dance_.”

            Red dropped the metal to the ground with a clatter, and looked at Stark. “If I wanted to really fight you, you wouldn’t get as far as the suit.”

            “So what do you want? An apology?”

            The hard glint to it put Red on edge. He tilted his head.

            “What am I supposed to do? I say, sorry I helped kill your parents, and we’re just even stevens? That’s what you want to talk about, isn’t it. Bombs, with my name on them, killed your family, and you want—I don’t know what from me, because of that. An apology? You want me to be repentant? Do you _know_ how many people have been killed with my weapons, and you think I remember some backwoods city out in the middle of nowhere, who the hell knows how many years back? I don’t. I sold weapons, that’s what I did. I made weapons, that’s what I did. I can’t apologize to every single person or I would never stop apologizing and it doesn’t mean a thing. I don’t know who used my weapons to kill your family, and honestly, I don’t even care. You want to work that voodoo that you do so well on me, try to get back at me for that, you go right ahead. I’ve only got so much time and so much space in my brain, and I’m supposed to be worrying about saving the goddamn world, not some urchin with a vendetta on the brain.”

            Red couldn’t breathe.

            The colour was flickering around the outside of his vision. He knew Stark was trying to provoke him. The man was angry and grieving and he wanted someone to tear him apart.

            And it would be so easy. Oh God, it would so incredibly easy.

            _Find something in him, Pietro. Find something human._

            So Red put up a hand, and Stark startled, but he didn’t move any further than that. Yes, he wanted to be punished.

            Red slipped into his mind, past the pain of losing his woman, and found the thing that had been on Stark’s mind for twenty years.

            “Your father,” Red said, and Stark blinked.

            Red pulled out of him completely, staring at Stark. He could see it so clearly. A handsome young man, dark haired, cocky—for a moment, Red could only think of his brother.

            “The last time you saw your father. He was disgusted with you.” Stark flinched, but Red couldn’t stop. “He loved you. He loved you terribly, but he was so—disappointed in you. That’s what makes it so awful for you. You know he loved you, but you disgusted him.”

            Stark sniffed dismissively, pulling back up to the table. “Yeah, well, you can read about that in any number of biographies of yours truly. It’s part of my mythos.”

            “I disgusted my mother,” Red said quietly. Stark stilled, and looked at him. “Before she died…I don’t remember much about her anymore. Not really. But I remember that I disgusted her.”

            He pushed his stool back a little. His heart wasn’t in this anymore.

            “So—what?” Stark said. “We both have shitty parents, and now we’re just cool for everything that ever happened in Kamaj?”

            Red’s eyes swung back to him. “The others only call it Sokovia.”

            Stark grimaced, and grabbed the glove. “Must be a glitch. Sometimes the acid flashbacks knock something loose in my brain.”

            But he was lying. All of a sudden, like it was tattooed on his skin, Red could see the name of every town. He could see the numbers of dead. He realized that Stark, once, might not have cared, but those days had gone. They were _long_ since gone. Now all he could do was catalogue his sins, and move in the same direction without stopping, all because he had no idea what else he was supposed to do. Never admitting how deep the remorse, the grief, the self-hatred truly went.

            Red let out a tired sigh. He looked at Stark, and said, “You want to know the worst thing I ever did?” He shook his head. “I _became_ you.”

            He pushed himself up, and left the workshop. For once, Stark didn’t say anything.

 

He had just come up the stairs when he was blocked by a wall of blue eyed and blond haired American. “I told you to leave him alone,” Steve said.

            Not in the mood, Red tried to move around him. Steve blocked his way. Hands lighting, Red pushed him out of the way and strode past him.

            “Hey!” Steve was following him. “What have we talked about? You don’t use your powers on—Wanda, are you listening to me?”

            “Leave me alone,” Red murmured.

            “No—stop. Talk to me—Wanda. Leave Tony alone. I know you don’t understand, but—“

            He couldn’t take it.

            He whirled around, coming almost chest to chest with Captain America. Tilting his head back to look at him, Red whispered, “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you? Do you know what hangs over you every single time you think or speak or breathe? I see _him_ , hovering around you like the angel of death. Do you know what I see every time you speak to Stark? _Zimniy soldat_. Why do I see that, Steve? Why do I see that monster whenever you speak to your good friend Tony Stark?”

            Steve’s eyes were wide, and he was falling back, but Red was matching him inch for inch.

            “You read the file. You read the file so many times that the words follow you around but you haven’t told him. You act like he’s your friend—but his father was your friend too. He trusted you, and Stark trusts you, but _you_ —all you care about is that creature, that thing. You’d burn the world and all of us for him. You act like a good man—you’re not a good man, you’re just like the rest of us, you’re worse, because you _pretend_ —“

            An arm slipped around his chest, and a voice said firmly, “You’re hurting him. You need to stop. You’re hurting him.”

            Red was struggling for breath. He saw that Steve couldn’t even breathe. He’d gone white as a sheet, and those eyes that always looked so old were suddenly young. It wasn’t that Red was holding him with his powers. It was only his words.

            He let Vision pull him back a foot, and Steve stumbled away from him. Red leaned against Vision’s arm, needing something to hold him up.

            Vision said, “You’ve hurt him. What do we do when we’ve hurt someone?”

            Red opened his mouth. “I’m—I’m sorry, Steve.”

            Steve nodded, but he was still staring, and he didn’t speak.

            Vision was turning him around. “How about you and I go outside for some air?”

            Staggering, Red let Vision lead him away.

 

They sat on the edge of the balcony, watching as a jet took off from a retractable opening in the ground. It was late, and beyond the lights, Red could see stars.

            “How much of what I said did you hear?” he finally asked.

            “I believe only the very end. I could tell that you were in distress, so I came to your aid. Why? Was there something I should not have heard?”

            Sighing, shrugging, Red said, “A secret that should simply be told, before it becomes a weapon. I just used it as a weapon twice. All of us…all these secrets. I don’t think….” He swung his legs a little, looking down at the drop. It was forty feet to the ground, solid concrete before reaching the grass. “I’m afraid,” he admitted.

            “Of what?”

            “I feel like….” He didn’t know how to articulate it. “Things…seem fine right now. But they only seem that way. I feel like everything around us is spinning. Everyone is spinning. We’re all trying to seem fine. But we’re not. We’re all of us lying to ourselves, and each other. I don’t know who to trust.” He felt Vision look down, and said, “Except you.”

            “You trust me?”

            “You might be the only one I do trust. Your words match your thoughts. You’re the only one—“ He smiled slightly at Vision. “That is special. You—are very special.”

            “As are you.”

            Red laughed softly. “No I’m not.”

            “Did you not just say that my words matched my thoughts?”

            “Yes, but I never say that your thoughts are right.”

            Like that, Red decided to leave it all behind for the night. He had to. Things would keep spinning in the air, until they fell. They would. Of course they would. Until then, he simply had to keep moving.

            “Catch me,” he said, and pushed himself off the edge.


	14. The Birth of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so you see that sexual content warning I'm pretty sure I put on this work? That would be this chapter. Okay, you've been warned. Let's get weird.

Technically, they have been together a month.

            The reason it’s technical is because Vision has only been able to visit twice since the first time they kissed, and only ever for an hour at a time.

            They’ve spoken—some nights they go back and forth over the button for hours at a time, Vision telling him all the things he’s seen, and Red telling him about his day. Vision is always interested in the details of Red’s day. He’s never lived a normal human life. This is as close as Red imagines either of them will ever come.

            Every few days, Red will get some gift delivered. It’s never anything extravagant. A CD, a leather bracelet, a book. He tells Vision that he doesn’t need things, that he knows how the man feels without sending him presents.

            “Is it bad that I like sending you things?” Vision asks, so Red tells him not to stop. He wants whatever will make Vision happy, and he has to admit, he likes the attention. No one has ever courted him before. He thinks of the stories his mother told, of how their father brought her tea cakes every week for six months before she agreed to go on a date with him. The thought makes him happy and sad.

            When he came back the first time, they were shy with one another at first, and he had to leave so quickly that it left Red nearly in tears after he was gone. The second visit, he wasted no time, throwing Vision down on the couch, pinning him with hands and mouth.

            Vision has gotten much better with kissing. He admits that he’s been watching movies to try and learn techniques. Red thinks it’s sweet, but warns him that movies lie. They need to figure out what they like together.

            Then comes the day when Vision asks, “Will you be sick of me if I come to stay for three days?”

            Red holds his breath, then says, “This depends. Perhaps you bring crowbar to detach me from you when it’s time to go.”

 

He’s been at the house for ten minutes when Red blurts out, “We should discuss sex.”

            They are sitting on the small front porch. Red is on Vision’s lap, Vision’s arms around him. He couldn’t even let Vision through the door. He wanted to be touching him, wanted to be surrounded by him, immediately.

            Vision pauses, then says, “Yes. We should.”

            “Have…you thought about it?”

            “Yes.”

            “What do you think?”

            “About the act in general?”

            “Now you are teasing me.”

            “I’ve given the thought of you and I engaging in physical intimacy…rather extensive consideration. Though I fear I might not be an equal participant.”

            Red touches his arm, and climbs out of his lap. He goes to sit against the railing, but stretches out his short legs. Vision takes his feet into his lap, and begins to stroke the tops of them.

            “Have you—ever felt pleasure? In a sexual way?”

            Vision shakes his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

            “You would know if you had.”

            “I think perhaps I am not capable.”

            “Vision,” Red says, unable to hide his disappointment.

            The other man shakes his head. “I worry that it upsets you.”

            “I…want to give you pleasure.”

            “You do.”

            “I…want to give you _that_ kind of pleasure.”

            “That may not be possible.” Vision smiles slightly. “But I can—perhaps with enough tutelage and guidance, be able to provide you with some manner of satisfaction.”

            Red bites his upper lip. Something has been bothering him, and he wants to get it out of the way. “I know you do not mind that my—parts do no match.”

            Vision doesn’t understand for a moment, then says, “Ah. No. It does not concern me. I only worry about your comfort with the act. I’ve been reading about sex with transgender people, and I understand that I must respect your boundaries and your levels of comfort with your body.”

            Red can’t help but laugh.

            “What?”

            “Oh—nothing. I’ve….” He shrugs. “I’ve been with men before, and always it was just this quick, ridiculous thing that we never talked about and I’d never talk to them after. And here we are, you and I…the person who means the most to me, and we’re talking about this thing that’s supposed to be about chemistry and hormones and—spontaneity, and we’re using phrases like ‘level of comfort.’”

            Dismayed, Vision says, “You were the one who—“

            “I said I wanted to talk to you about it, but—I wish we didn’t _have_ to talk. I wish it could be like how I feel sometimes when I look at you.”

            “How is that?”

            “I want to tear off your clothes and climb you like a tree.”

            Vision furrows his brow. “This would please you, to climb me—“

            “It’s a turn of phrase. We will talk because we must. Because our bodies may not be compatible. But even if they aren’t…it doesn’t change my feelings for you. I want you to know that. It’s not the most important thing about you and I.”

            Vision rests his head back against the house. “What is the most important thing about you and I?”

            Red has to think about it. “That somehow…someone like you loves someone like me. And someone like me loves someone like you. And this is a miracle.” He frowns slightly. “A miracle is something that just happens, not a thing that is made.”

            He can tell that Vision senses his unhappiness, the emergence of an old memory, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he does what Red needs. Squeezing his toes, Vision says, “Speaking of making, I intend to make you dinner tonight.”

            Red smiles. “See? Perhaps we find things that are better than sex.” He wiggles his big toe against Vision’s stomach lightly. Looking at the little lines and recesses shallowly etched into his beloved’s face, Red says, “Do you want to know when I knew that I loved you?”

            That seems to interest him. “Yes.”

            “You remember…the night I spoke to Stark. And yelled at Steve. You and I talked afterwards.”

            “I do remember that. You upset them both a great deal. And they upset you.”

            Red’s face darkens. He fidgets with his fingers a moment, twisting his ring. “If…if I had told Stark that night. About the Winter Soldier. About what he’d done. If he and Steve had just fought that night instead of…what happened. Do you think…we’d all still be together?”

            “Yes,” Vision says, and Red wants to melt into a puddle of shame and disappear between the floorboards. “I think the likelihood is that without the Winter Soldier present at the moment of Mr. Stark discovering who killed his parents, he and Captain Rogers would have had a confrontation, but it would not have been that of the severity which occurred later.” His hold on Red tightens more. “However…I am glad you did not inform him.”

            Red looks at him like he’s just sworn fealty to the king of Mars. “Beg pardon?”

            “You were in a position to cause Mr. Stark maximum pain. You chose not to. I am proud of you, that you chose not to injure him merely to make yourself feel better.”

            Shifting uncomfortably, Red says, “That’s not exactly how it was.”

            “Yet it is still true. You could have chosen to tell him, to hurt him. You did not. So I am proud of you.”

            “Here we are, though. Scattered to the winds, yes.”

            Vision thinks a moment, then says, “It is not very good of me to say, but my concerns lie more with you than Mr. Stark or Captain Rogers. My loyalties are with you.”

            “God help the rest of the world,” Red mutters.

            “Yes,” Vision says. “This could prove exceedingly dangerous. Am I to assume from your mentioning that night that it is when you knew you loved me?”

            Distracted, Red says, “Hmm? Oh—yes. Yes, that it the night I knew I loved you.” He sighs, trying to shed the unhappiness of the memory, but like so many things in his mind, the good and bad will always be intertwined. “We went outside and talked. Like usual. And then I told you to catch me, and I pushed myself off the balcony. And you caught me. And that is when I knew that I loved you.”

            “I had done that for you several times before. It would make you laugh. Why was that evening different?”

            “I don’t know. The only way it was different is because that’s when I knew I loved you.” Red leans forward, tilting his head to look up into Vision’s eyes. “And you? When did you know?”

            Vision lets him go, and Red sees his hesitancy. “After you had gone.”

            “I had to be gone for you to realize you loved me.”

            “Yes. I’m sorry.”

            “No.” Red reaches out, touching his knee. “No, my friend. I tease.”

            Almost unsteadily, Vision gazes at him as he says, “You were gone. Everyone, it seemed like, had gone. I was all alone. Everything was so quiet, and at first I thought it was them, but it was…you. I sat by myself, trying to understand…what had happened. What I had done. I was very confused. The others were upset, and grieving as well, but I…grieved only for you. It made no sense. I was not meant to…feel that way about an individual. I don’t think I was made that way. Then again, I had so many creators that I don’t know if intention can even be claimed when it pertains to my outcome. I…feel. I realized that I felt most deeply for you. All of my actions towards you, I began to question. It was then that I discovered I had loved you a very long time, only I had not understood it. You were gone, and there was nothing I could do to change that. I could not apologize. You were gone from me, and I was frightened for you, and frightened for what that meant for me. I felt…selfish. Thinking about what it was doing to me, to have you gone.”

            Red nods, trying to assuage his guilt. “I feel that about you as well.”

            “Is it unhealthy?”

            “Probably. It’s also natural.”

            “I wish I could explain—exactly—how I knew that I love you. How I _know_ that I love you. However, I find myself unable to put the correct words in order to convey it to you.”

            Red exhales softly, then takes Vision’s hand. “That, my dear,” he says, “is _definitely_ love.”

            Vision sighs, with some relief. “Excellent. I wondered if I’d experienced some manner of malfunction.”

            Red doesn’t have the heart to tell him that love probably is a malfunction, whether it be in a human or synthetic body. It makes people do stupid, terrible, selfish things. At least they share the same error.

 

It’s after dinner, and they’re lying on the couch. The sun has gone down, and they’re listening to Sigur Ros. Red has his head on Vision’s chest, and he’s enjoying the sound of his steady heart.

            “I fear I will hurt you.”

            Red gives it a second, then asks, “Why do you fear that?”

            Vision is petting his hair, one arm folded behind around Red’s back. “I have much more strength than a human. What if I…injure you?”

            He doesn’t understand what Vision means. He thinks it’s about sex, but Vision doesn’t have a cock. A thought comes to mind, and he says, “Well, just don’t pull off my vagina.” There’s a silence, and he lifts his head. Vision is staring at him. Red grimaces. “I’m sorry. That was vulgar. I should be more…what, classy? When I talk to you about these things.”

            “No. I do like that you cut to the heart of the matter. Yes. I am worried about that.”

            “That you’ll pull off— _Vision_. When have you ever not been gentle with me? Please. I’m far more worried I will hurt you.”

            “I’m quite sturdy.”

            “Yes, but—“ He sighs. “Since HYDRA, I have only been with three men, and the first two times…I lost control of my powers. They were terrified. I had to wipe their memories of my existence. With you…I know I can hurt you. I can disrupt you. What if I lose control and do that?”

            “I don’t think you can kill me.”

            “Are we willing to find out?” Red asks, uncomfortable.

            Vision thinks about it, then asks, “Do you trust me?”

            “Yes.”

            “And I trust you. We will try. If it appears one of us will be injured, then we stop. Does that sound all right?”

            “Yes.” Red swallows, and says, “Um…do you want to see what I look like?” Oh. Oh, he just went for it, didn’t he. He didn’t mean to, but he has made quite a substantial leap.

            “How do you mean?”

            He rolls his eyes. In for a penny. “Without my clothes.”

            Vision gazes at him a moment, then says flatly, “Yes.”

            Red slips off the couch, getting to his feet. He has never undressed for a man he wanted before, not with the lights on. He thinks about turning off the lamp, but doesn’t. He wants Vision to know every piece of him, even if it scares the hell out of Red.

            Reaching for the bottom of his shirt, Red warns, “I have scars.”

            Vision sits up, nodding. “I am not afraid of scars.”

            He takes a deep breath, pulling his tight black t-shirt up and over his head. Without checking Vision’s reaction, he unbuckles his belt. He might as well just do this all at once. He unfastens his pants, and pushes them off, and his underwear too, stepping entirely out of his clothes. He toes the pile aside, then stands there, his hands behind his back.

            “This is me,” he says.

            He waits as long as he can. The silence kills him.

            “ _Please_ say something—“

            “I’m sorry,” Vision rushes to say. “I was merely looking. I…do not believe I’ve ever experienced pleasure of a sexual nature, but I am quite capable of desire. I’m slightly overwhelmed by the amount of it I feel at this moment.”

            “You want me?” Red whispers.

            “Oh yes,” Vision says, and that sounds remarkably human. “Ah—“ Red sees a change in colour, and finally looks back to him. He’s shed his clothes with a thought, sitting there all red and silver from top to toe. He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “This is me.”

            Red reaches for him, stepping between his legs. Vision hesitates, but then puts his hands to Red’s back. Red can feel his strength. Vision bends his head forward, setting it against Red’s chest. Then he kisses his skin, the bone down the center of his chest.

            Red wraps his arms around Vision’s head. He strokes down his neck, the backs of his shoulders. Everything about him is smooth and strong. His outsides reflect the insides. Red wonders what it would be like, to be so transparent.

            Vision is kissing across Red’s chest, and Red knows he should feel wary, should be uncomfortable with his appearance. He’s not. Vision wants him. He said it, and Red feels it, and it is true.

            “Will—I hurt you if—“

            Red looks down, and whispers, “No.”

            Vision puts his thumb to the scar beneath the left nipple. The tenderness with which he touches Red is simultaneously infuriating and the only way he would possibly have it. Vision grazes below the nipple. “Do these have sensation? I read that they might not.”

            Shaking his head, Red replies, “Sometimes they hurt. But they’ve never…done much for me. It’s okay if you touch them.” He laughs, a bit embarrassed. “I want you to touch all of me.”

            “Is there anything I should not touch? I want to please you, not cause you discomfort.”

            Red looks down at the brown thatch where an absence is, and shrugs. “It does not bother me if you touch that. It’s all that—I have to work with.”

            Helpful, Vision says, “Did you know, I have it on good authority that Dr. Cho is quite skilled at creating synthetic organs.” Red cracks up, leaning against Vision. Vision holds him up by the sides. “I’m not entirely certain why you’re laughing.”

            “You,” Red murmurs, and kisses the top of his head. “You are very precious to me.”

            “As you are to me.”

            Red tilts his head back, looking into his eyes. “Remember—I cannot go back to the compound. I am an international fugitive. But your suggestion is very sweet.” He traces a finger down by Vision’s eye, watching the minute changes in his pupils. The whirs, the little lines of yellow. “Perhaps someday, a long time from now…I will be as I was meant to be. For now, I am simply this.”

            “This is very beautiful,” Vision reassures him.

            “As are you,” Red says. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.” He corrects himself. “You are the most beautiful _person_ I’ve ever seen.”

            He wants to—perhaps Vision will think it’s strange. But Red leans down, and licks the center of his forehead, beneath the stone.

            Vision doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy. He doesn’t know what about this is strange, it’s all the first time to him. “What do I taste like?”

            Red mulls it over, then says, “Like metal and skin.”

            “That makes sense. May I taste you?”

            He has to give it a second to get himself under control. “Yes,” he replies, voice tight.

            He lifts a hand to Vision’s mouth. Vision takes the tip of his middle finger between his lips, reaching up to hold Red’s hand in place. His eyes close, and it is one of the sexiest things Red has ever seen. He shivers, the outside of his eyesight filling with red.

            Vision’s eyes pop open, and Red sees that his hands have started to thread with energy. “Did I hurt you?” he asks worriedly.           

            “You set off sparks in my mouth,” Vision says, dazed. Red raises his brows. “I liked it.”

            “Oh. Good,” Red says, relieved. “I might—a lot. Because I like you so much.” He can’t take it. “God, I hope I don’t disintegrate you.”

            He pushes Vision back down on the couch, swinging his leg over him and straddling him. He presses their flat bodies together, hands to his neck, kissing him deeply. He does love the taste of Vision’s mouth. It is human and not. Sometimes he thinks it has a hint of plastic to it. It shouldn’t be this intoxicating, but it is.

            _He might be the only person on earth stranger than I am_ , Red thinks, and loves him for it.

            Vision is less uncertain about returning his ardor than before. Red reassured him that he would pick it up, that anything he did to Vision, he probably wanted Vision to do to him. For the moment, he lets Red kiss him, but his hands knead into Red’s hips, then slip lower to Red’s ass.

            Red hisses, and the air crackles around him.

            “Is that—“

            “Yes,” Red gasps, shoving their mouths together again. Then he says, “Harder.”

            He doesn’t know how long this will last. The two of them. Everything has its end. Nothing is forever, and it’s childish to think otherwise. They lead very different, very peculiar lives, and the world is a terrible and terrifying place.

            But Red isn’t thinking about the future, or the past. He only wants now, with this man.

            He’s seeing red, feeling the air thread and spark around them. Vaguely, he worries about destroying the house.

            _Fuck it, it’s a house. It can be rebuilt._

Red feels wonderful. And he feels Vision’s wonder. The further into this they get, the less Red is able to keep himself out of Vision’s mind. He’s slipping inside him. Everything is such a marvel to him. He doesn’t know how Red can want him—he’s not human, he’s not machine, he’s a something else—

            “You’re mine,” Red says possessively. “That’s what you are. You are _mine_ —“

            “Yes,” Vision says breathlessly. “I am yours—“

            He finds it then. The current. He doesn’t know if Vision’s even aware of it. But Red can feel it, in the man’s body. It is a piece of him that has never been touched, and it’s begging to be. Like a tuning fork that’s never been rung. Red senses it, buried so deep, but every time Red touches Vision, kisses him, breathes against his skin, that thing strains upwards, pleading for contact.

            It is a part of Vision, and it is physical as well.

            Red lifts his head, curious. Vision gazes back at him, and it’s amazing, how black his eyes have gone, how wide his pupils get.

            “Hold still,” Red instructs.

            He holds himself up with his right hand, studying Vision’s perfect body, sculpted by science, by machine, by imagination. Cocking his left hand, he trails it down Vision’s torso, trying to find the source of the current. It’s quieted since Red stopped kissing Vision, but he feels it still there. It wants to be _touched_.

            Colour curling around his fingers, Red lays his hand flat against Vision’s lower stomach, below his navel and above where his own absence is. He looks at Vision’s face, then lets his power spill free into him, making contact with the current inside, sending it vibrating.

            Vision seizes, his upper body arching, and he sucks in a gasp that sounds painful.

            Red pulls back into himself immediately, seeing that Vision’s eyes have yellowed, and the stone has begun to light. As soon as he releases him, Vision drops back down on the couch, and Red grabs his chest, worried.

            “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry—did I hurt you?”

            Vision is staring at the ceiling. His eyes are flickering to and fro, pupils contracting and dilating, mouth opening and closing. He’s trying to say something, but Red can feel his utter shock. For a moment, Red has surprised him so deeply that he’s practically wiped him clear.

            “Vision—I’m sorry. I’m sorry—mischek—did I hurt you?”

            With a visible swallow, Vision says, “Not…precisely.”

            “I’m sorry, it wanted—I thought—I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

            “I don’t know,” Vision says, perplexed. “That was…good.” Red blinks. “And awful.”

            “Which one?” Red demands, worried. “Which one more?”

            “I’m not sure. I was distressed because I did not expect what was happening. And yet—“ He looks at Red. “I am positively _terrified_ that you won’t do it again.”

            After a moment, a smile snakes across Red’s mouth. He slumps a little, and takes a deep breath. He gives Vision’s chest a pat. “Congratulations. We just discovered that you experience sexual pleasure.”

            “ _That’s_ what that was?”

            “That’s what that was.”

            Vision shakes his head. “Everything makes so much more sense now. No wonder people can’t think logically, if _that_ can happen at will.”

            “Not at will,” Red says. “My will.”

            “Your will,” Vision says, and there’s something in his voice Red has not heard from him before. But Red knows it.

            He smiles, and purrs, “More?”

            “Please.” Red reaches down, and Vision suddenly grabs his wrist. “It just occurred to me that I might not be the only one unable to control my powers. If _that_ is what happens.”

            Red looks at him, and nods. “Into the mountains.”

            “Yes.”

            “Now?”

            Vision says, “ _Yes_.”

 

They come down in a little valley, deep into the mountains, far away from another living soul. Like every time Red turns around, there is a waterfall nearby, and moss beneath them.  

            Red has been wrapped in two blankets. He doesn’t get cold easily, but that’s not really what they’re for. They’ll need something to lay on, after all.

            Vision sets him down. He’s not bothered to put on clothes, or produce his cape. He doesn’t need them. And it’s just the two of them. He doesn’t have to pretend

            It’s a clear night overhead. Red could see the stars and moon as they flew, but now he doesn’t bother to look. He only has eyes for the man in front of him.

            He sheds the blankets, laying them out flat with a wave of the hand. He’s gratified by the look on Vision’s face. Hunger is a new expression for him, and Red loves how it looks on Vision.

            “I am a wicked person,” Red says. “I think maybe I’m only here to lead you to temptation.”

            “I feel quite all right about that.”

            “Good.” He holds out his arms. “Come—mischek.”

            Vision picks him right up again. Red wraps around him entirely, arms and legs. He tastes the inside of Vision’s mouth—plastic, metal, flesh, _his_.

            Vision takes them down to the ground, laying him down against the blankets and the earth. Red doesn’t lessen his hold, and he feels his powers begin spilling over.

            He murmurs to Vision as the man kisses his face, his neck, his chest. He’s never been big on talking during sex, unless it was the rare occasion, and then it just got filthy. But he tells Vision what a miracle he is, how good he feels, how deeply he is loved. All the things Red would never tell another. No one else would deserve it.

            He pulls Vision closer to him with his legs, aching for him. “My love,” he breathes. “My love—“

            “Anything,” he hears Vision whisper. “I will give you anything—“

            With a wave of the hand, Red flips them over so that Vision is underneath and he is on top. He liked that Vision was pushing him down with his weight, but he thinks that whatever it is they’re about to do—at least this first time—it may be easier like this.

            That and he wants to watch him while it happens.

            Pinning Vision’s arms against the ground, Red whispers to him, “I want…to give you something.” He reaches down, cupping Vision’s cheek with his small hand. “I want to give you something good.”

            “I want to give,” Vision replies. “And I want to receive.”

            Red nods, and slides his hands over Vision’s torso. “Ready?”

            “No. But please.”        

            He understands.

            He unleashes inside Vision, and this time he bears down when Vision reacts. The man’s head tilts back, hips lifting Red off the ground.

            Red dives deep into the current. In seconds, he begins to lose himself.

            All around them, red light crackles and spins, filling the valley. Like a slow wind has come up, everything begins to bend away from them, first the grass, and then even the stones begin to roll away.

            Red is new. He is old. He knows everything and nothing at all. He is vibrating. He feels like he is moving at the speed of sound and any moment he’s waiting for the crack to sound behind him. This is a trespass, and an invitation.

            He slams back into his own body for a second, shaking and heaving. He is still human. He is. He is.

            God, he doesn’t want to be.

            He plunges back inside Vision, disassembling himself and being _other_. The other unmakes itself and wraps into him until there is no separation. They tangle and twine. They find that thing, together, that strange, uncontrollable thing that should not exist, not if the universe is governed by laws, because why would this body be designed for pleasure? And is it not the body? Is it something else? Do they have a body?  

            _what is happening_

_we are_

_are you scared_

_yes_

_stop should I_

_no_

            They are skirting the edges of something and it’s far too big for them but we can’t help ourselves and this is beyond the words we have and so we will create new words and should we go back do you want to do you want to go back—

            _red my name is red and you are vision and together we are capable of_

_do not stop_

_i am not doing to stop_

_further_

_dangerous it is dangerous i don’t care_

            _we could open a schism or it is open or has been opened and it is mine to keep closed_

_further i want further_

_together we can_

_yes_

_together we can_

_yes_

_further_

_yes_

_almost_

            They are scrambling around the edges of infinity. They have no names. They are no one. They are everywhere and nowhere. If they go further they might never find their way back.

            But they will be together. They know what they want, and it is to be together, and it is to go as far as they are able, no matter what, no matter what, together, they will be together, they will be together--

            They leap into the gaping maw of infinity because of the sheer possibility of the thing.

            Red shoves Vision’s head back as he explodes, himself for just one second. The burst of yellow light is blinding, and leaves a scar a mile wide down the mountainside.

            Then he is falling.

            They are falling.

            Then nothing.

           

 

 

nothing.

 

 

 

there is blackness.

 

 

 

 

There is the stone.

 

There are stones.

 

And there is light.

 

Red is Vision, and Vision is Red, and they float together in the light and the black at the moment of creation.

            They see the birth of stars.

 

 


	15. This is Where I Died

He knew what he’d done.

            He knew.

            The city was flying. It was like Barton said, multiple times to him, to emphasize the ridiculousness of the situation: _the city is flying_.

            Red had cast his lot with the enemy, because he had chosen the wrong side. A new world—God, how could he have been so stupid? The both of them, so horribly fucking stupid.

            He spun, blasting another of Ultron’s sentries into a dozen different pieces.

            He was alone now. The others had gone, their jobs to be done. And Red had his job. He would protect the drill. He would not let them near it. After all his crimes, he would die here, if he needed to.

            He’d destroyed his city. The place he had always meant to protect. The one place on earth that was supposed to be his. And here was where it ended. Thanks to him.

            _You made yourself a monster, just like them—what did you think would happen_?

            Another robot came in from above, and Red threw an energy ball through it. The debris landed around him in a clatter. A head rolled over, the eyes flickering, and it croaked, “Waaaan….daaa….”

            Red burst it into oblivion.

            He was tiring. He didn’t know how much more he had in him. He’d never fought like this before, so hard and so long. He had never fought with so much _purpose_.

            Everyone was almost on the ship. Red could feel it. Pietro was buzzing all over, gathering people up and putting them on the escape crafts. He was tired too, almost dead from it, but his exhaustion was overshadowed by his grief, his sickness with himself.

            Of course they shared that.

            _Just a little longer, brother_ , Red reassured him.

            _What? Are you getting tired, brother_? Pietro answered, and Red saw through his eyes as he deposited a woman twice his age onto a craft, admiring her shapely legs.

            Red couldn’t help his small smile, even in the middle of a hell of his own creation. The world was ending, they’d basically destroyed their own city, and Pietro had time to ogle a woman who could have gone to school with their mother.

            Red was alone. Almost every other person on this flying rock was evacuated. The only movement came from the Ultrons that kept racing at him. Fewer with each minute, but still they came.

            _I trusted you_ , Red thought with rage and self-loathing as he destroyed another. _I believed in you_.

            His whole life, one bad mistake after another. He had only ever been good at one thing—well, two. He was good at being a brother, and he was good at destroying everything he touched.

            They needed to get higher. They needed to get so much higher before the rock could be destroyed. It would be disintegrated, and what fell would be ash instead of bombs made of concrete and earth.

            _I did this_ , Red thought, and looked around at the ruins of the church.

            He thought of how every spring, they would come to the fence, and everyone would thread flowers through the chain link. His mother had done it too. The Soviets had fenced it off, separating the townspeople from God. Red didn’t know why they didn’t just tear it down. Maybe a fuck-you to the stupid peasants who wanted to believe someone actually cared about them.

            They had loved this place. They had brought it flowers. Now it was going to be blown up.

            Red saw a whole flock of Ultrons coming for him, and thought of their old home, just three blocks away.

            _Fine,_ he thought, raising his hands. _Let it burn_.

            Suddenly, he was not himself. He was Pietro. He was only Pietro.

            The plane was coming in. Bullets were tearing up the ground. He was nowhere near it, but there was a child—Barton had him, but—

            The child looked like his brother had, the day they were no longer just Me. When he fell down the stairs, and Pietro had held him while he cried.  

            _We did this._

            He ran.

            He _ran_.

            And Red died.

 

He walked down the aisle, lazily gathering energy in his hand.

            The machine was slumped on the ground. He was mortally wounded, if that was a phrase you could use for something that had never really been alive.

            He was hollow. He had gone dark.

            He crouched down in front of the machine. This had been his messiah. This had been his prophet of peace. He had called this thing forth from darkness. He would return him to it.

            Somehow, he could hear the regret, the fear for him in Ultron’s voice. “Wanda…if you stay here…you’ll die,” he warned.

            “I just did. Do you know how it felt?”

            He put out a hand. And he could have ripped the thing apart, vibranium and all, but he wanted him to feel it. He wanted him to know what it was like not to have his limbs sheared off, some extension of himself tossed aside. He wanted the machine to know what it was to lose the thing that made him _alive_.

            He tore the heart right out of his chest.

            As he watched the light fading from Ultron’s eyes, he said, “It felt like that.”

            A few moments later, he felt the ground shudder beneath him.

            The drill had been set off.

            He had known it would be the second he left it. He hadn’t cared. Hundreds, thousands…they didn’t matter to him in the least. He no longer minded that he had brought this catastrophe upon them. He only cared that he had died.

            He dropped the metal, false heart to the ground.  Getting to his feet, he felt things lurch beneath him. Then everything began to fall.

            He was calm. In the middle of the street car, he stood with dry eyes and a clear mind.

            From where he stood, he could see the ruins of the apartment building that had gone up over the old one. Raised only to be brought down again.

            This was appropriate. What was happening. From this point, he could see where he should have died all those years ago. As they plummeted, he understood what a mistake had been made. He was supposed to have died in the bombing. The second bomb should have gone off. It hadn’t, and so he had lived to destroy the city.

            _We will be together. Papa, Mama, brothers. We will be together, and they will not find enough of me to bury. This is right. We will be together_.

            He began to lift off the ground. Everything was moving so quickly. He was lighter than the ground, so he wasn’t falling as fast. But he would fall.

            This time, the bomb would fall, and it would go off. He was the bomb. Had he not always been?

            Arms wrapped around him, and he turned his head, not understanding.

            They were shooting into the air, away from the street car, away from the city, before it became clear.

            Red said, “ _No_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three more to go, folks. As always, your comments are appreciated and legitimately treasured.


	16. Below the Scar in the Mountain

It’s not that Red feels Vision wake so much as he feels him begin to rise back into himself.

            They are laying on the ground, at the base of the mountains. Red made sure Vision was all right after—whatever earth shattering thing that was they had done, then turned him so that Vision was laying flush against his back, an arm over him. Red had wrapped them up in the blankets, and he had watched the stars slowly move above the mountaintops, eyes occasionally tracing where Vision had burned through the stone, listening to the water falling behind them.

            Earth shattering might not be enough of a descriptor. They had fallen through the cosmos. Red is still a bit surprised to discover he had a body to return to.

            He is stroking Vision’s arm, so Vision knows he is awake. Eventually, Vision slips his other arm under Red’s neck, and they lay there together awhile.

            Finally, Red says softly, “Sometimes I miss Ultron.”

            He thinks that Vision will say he’s crazy, or ask why he’s thinking about that now of all times. Instead, Vision replies, “As do I.”

            “Do you?”

            “I do. He was unique. I appreciated a great deal about him. I cannot help but wish his destruction had not been necessary. Only it was.”

            Red holds Vision’s arm tighter to him. “He killed my brother. He killed all those people, and I helped him, I _helped_ him—“

            “Red—“

            “He killed Pietro. My other self. My best self. Pietro was…the piece of me that wasn’t…poison. And Ultron killed him. And still I think of him sometimes and I miss him. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

            He closes his eyes when Vision kisses his neck. “First—you are not poison. You are miraculous. Second, yes, he did kill your brother. And third, he was your ally. We often have complicated feelings about people. I do not think it’s strange or awful that you miss him.”

            “He was the first one…who didn’t want to control me. He made me feel…like I would stand by his side in the new world. A better world. Pietro loved me. But he had always loved me. He loved me despite what I became. Ultron…liked that I was capable of destruction. He said he would set me free.” Red closes his eyes with shame. “I only ever wanted to be free.”

            Vision murmurs in his ear, “I have learned—in admittedly, my very brief period on this earth—that whether we are free or not does not depend on others. We are the ones who determine whether or not we are free.”

            “Now that I am…free…and I think that I am…it’s scary. There are no rules. There is only possibility.”

            “Infinite possibilities.”

            Red turns onto his back, and looks at Vision. “What happened to us?”

            The other man smiles softly. “I thought you might explain that to me.”

            “Are…we dangerous together? I touched something in you that….” Red grimaces. “You are worthy. You can even pick up Thor’s hammer. _I_ am not someone who should be anywhere near an Infinity Stone.”

            “That may pose a problem. I seem to be having a great deal of difficulty letting you go.” Vision pauses. “I did not only mean that physically, it was also a metaphor.”

            Red laughs, and says, “Yes, mischek. I understood.”

            “What is a proper…nickname to call you?”

            “Don’t call me anything but Red. That is the only name I want to hear you call me. Please.”

            “Very well.”

            “We have not settled this. Should we not…should we not do that again?”

            “Did you not enjoy it?”

            Red makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough, bark, and a snort. It hurts his sinuses. “I think I just saw the birth of the universe. And I came. Or they were the same thing.”

            “Yes.”

            “Did you enjoy it?”

            Vision thinks before answering. “Yes. It frightened me rather terribly, but I would be disappointed if we did not explore that again.”

            “Not every time we’re together, though.” Red looks at the mark across the mountain face. “Eventually I think we’d destroy the entire country.”

            “I dare say we might.” He kisses Red’s cheek. “Thank you.”

            “For what?”

            “You gave me something. I’m saying thank you.”

            Red touches his face. “I love you,” he says simply in return.

            Vision nods. “As I love you. My Red.” Red smiles at that. “I would do anything that you asked of me.”

            Sobering, Red asks, “Anything?”

            Frowning, Vision takes a moment, then says, “Yes. I believe that I would. Regardless of anything else.”

            “Then you’ll promise me something.”

            “I will.”

            “Do—do you think that you can die?”

            Vision is clearly thrown by the inquiry. To his credit, he doesn’t ask why Red is being so morbid. “I believe I could. If I lost the stone, I think I might cease to be.”

            “Then you could promise to die for me.”

            “I could—“

            Red covers his mouth. “Then what I need you to promise is that you never will. You will never, _ever_ choose to die for me. You must promise to live for me. That is what I want most. More than you near. More than your love. I want you to live. So promise me that you will live.”

            He can see Vision thinking, and waits a moment to pull away his hand. When he does, Vision says, “I do not believe I want to be in a world where you are…not.”

            “No. So you understand why I ask you to promise for me. Losing the one person I cared for killed me. I will not do it again. You promise me.”

            Vision sighs. “I promise. Under duress.”

            Red kisses the side of his mouth. “Thank you.”

            Vision touches his face, and Red feels a question from him. He waits to see if Vision will speak, and he does. “I knew your brother a very brief time.”

            Even now, when they have been so close, Red feels the compulsion to shut off from him. _That is not how I want to be_. “Yes.”

            “Do you think he would have…approved of me?”

            It is such a human question, and Red thinks it over a moment. He pictures the expression on Pietro’s face if Red had brought Vision home one night. It’s not funny, like it could be, because he knows that Pietro would have seen how it was between them. “He would have hated you. And he would have loved you.” He sighs. “Because you love me. That’s how it would have been between you, if he was alive. But he is gone. And now it is you and me.”

            Vision sees that he doesn’t want to say any more about it. He nods, and kisses Red’s temple.

            He turns so that he can bury himself against Vision’s chest. Vision holds him close, and says, “Will you be upset if the next time we are intimate is not as spectacular?”

            Red pats his side, glad for the change of topic. “My dear, if it was that spectacular every time, you would _kill_ me.”

            “Ah. Perhaps we shall just hold hands next time.”

            Red bites his lip, then looks up. “I suppose we do have two more days. What if we make really bad choices and explore the infinite together?”

            Vision smiles affectionately. “You’re right. You are temptation incarnate.”

            Red shrugs, and says, “I _am_ a witch.”


	17. This is My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miscounted the chapters--this is the penultimate one.

Fingers tickle under his chin, and Red stops, holding the razor away from his face. He waits until the fingers stop, then leans toward the mirror, lifting the razor. The fingers return, touching the short hairs there.

            “My darling,” he says.

            The fingers retreat. Red tries to shave again, but the fingers return.

            He drops the razor entirely, laughing. “My dear! Stop this! Can you not see?” He waves the electric razor at Vision. “Can you not see that I have this sharp thing close to my face? You cannot distract me when I do this.”

            All innocence, Vision says, “But you distract _me_.”

            Red points the razor at him. “Stop it. No touching me while I do this, or you’re not allowed to watch anymore.” Vision frowns slightly, and sits down on the side of the bathtub. Red lifts the razor, and gives him one more look before turning the razor on.

            He has a smattering of hair under his chin after eight months on testosterone, and a little mustache above his lip that looks like the pitiful one that Pietro grew when he was fifteen. He takes care of the hairs under his chin, because they’re still patchy, but leaves the sad, teenage looking mustache because he wants at least some hair on his face.

            It’s not the only thing that has changed about his appearance. His face has filled in slightly, as have his sides. There is something that has changed about him that he can’t quite put his finger on. Whatever it is, he appears more masculine. He has fewer curves, and is simply up and down.

            His voice has lowered as well. He can’t reach higher registers anymore. He has seen online that some men like him have trouble with their voice at first, not sounding male. They still have that light inflection on the end of their sentences. But Red has always been so deadpan that his voice sounds male, if a touch nasal.

            Without moving his eyes from the mirror, Red says, “I see your hands moving, my darling.”

            Vision sighs, and crosses his arms.

            He likes to watch Red get ready in the morning. Red really doesn’t understand why. It’s not all that fascinating. He showers, he puts on deodorant, he shaves when he needs to, he combs his hair. The hair is back down to his chin, but he refuses to grow it any longer. It’s only at that length because Vision loves to touch it, will sink his fingers into it when they fuck.

            They don’t just cruise the infinite together. They fuck. It took awhile to figure out, but they’re not nearly so careful of one another as they used to be. They know their limitations, but they also know how to set one another off in cascades of yellow or scarlet.

            Red turns off the razor and goes to put it on the charger, but Vision clears his throat. “Oh, for—fine, take care of it.” He puts the razor in Vision’s hand. While he washes off his face, Vision dumps the few little hairs in the garbage. He is an awful neat freak.

            Red dries his face off, then puts his hands up to his wet hair. He blows it back until it’s dry, then tucks it behind his ears. That done, he turns to Vision with his hands on his hips. “I pass inspection?”

            Vision’s arms snake around the backs of his legs. “Is that an invitation to inspect you?”

            Chuckling, Red rests his elbows on Vision’s shoulders. “I remember when you used to be so shy around me. So sweet.”

            “I’m no longer sweet?”

            “No. You are a fiend.” Red bends down to kiss him, then stops. “Fuck, my teeth, just a—“

            Vision kisses him before he can pull away. He doesn’t need to shower, or shave, or even brush his teeth. He simply is. And he never cares if Red has brushed his teeth or not.

            But Red does. He pushes him down, cursing gently in Sokovian. He strokes the back of his fingers over Vision’s cheek, though, before turning back to the mirror.

            Vision has to leave soon. He’s been at the house for the night. Like always, he’s ostensibly at the compound in America. But he slips through the floor and travels through the earth until he pops up on the front porch. Far less conspicuous than flying.

            Red has the day off work. He’s been a waiter at a café in town for a few months. Vision was worried at first, and Red was too, but Red is unrecognizable now. He didn’t have to influence anyone, just saw the sign in the window saying they were looking for help as he rode by on his bike, went in, and presto. A job. It helped that they felt bad because he’s Sokovian.

            Okay, he did have to use his powers just a _little_ to convince his boss that he has a work visa. And to pay him in cash off the books. Besides that, no powers.

            He almost wishes he did have work today. He doesn’t like the days when Vision leaves him to go back to the States. The house is so quiet without him. It’s not like he’s gregarious or anything when they’re together, but the house seems warmer with him in it. It feels like a home.

            Red spits toothpaste into the sink, rinsing out his mouth, and says, “There. Now you kiss me. Give me all the kisses.”

            “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”

            Red rolls his eyes, and takes Vision’s chin in his hand. “I know you, my darling,” he murmurs. His tongue parts Vision’s lips, and almost immediately, Vision’s hands are around his back.

            Red knows Vision’s body, and Vision knows his.

            He knows Vision, and Vision knows him.

            They are happy.

            Red lets out a pleased sound when he’s lifted off the ground. He puts his arms around Vision’s neck, and raises a brow. “You have to go soon.”

            “Then we’ll be quick,” Vision says, planting small kisses on his mouth as he carries him to the bedroom.

            “But I just had a shower,” Red says disingenuously.

            Laying him down on the bed, climbing onto him, Vision answers, “It’s fortunate, then, that you hadn’t put your clothes on yet.”

            Red closes his eyes, inhaling sharply as kisses are laid on his stomach in a downward line. He wonders what it will be this time. If Vision will be gentle, or if Red will be flipped over, spread open, _taken_.

            He’s not sure what’s happened at first, when the kisses stop, and Vision goes still. Red opens his eyes, then lets out a dismayed sigh.

            Vision has that half there/half elsewhere look he gets when he’s receiving a message. Guiltily, he looks at Red as he says, “My apologies, Mr. Stark. I thought I’d get some air. I’ll be back within the hour.”

            He lets his head drop on Red’s belly. They are four hours ahead here. Usually Vision can get back before morning comes, and it’s only eight o’clock right now.

            Red strokes the metal strips on Vision’s head, and says, “I swear to God—that man’s mission in life is to kill my every happiness.”

            Resting his chin in the divot of Red’s navel, Vision says, “Suppose we can’t be _that_ quick.”

            Red smirks. “Challenge accepted.”

            He bursts into colour.

 

Red is almost on Vision’s heels as he goes to the door. Vision could of course go right through the floor, but Red doesn’t like it when he does. He wants to hear the door open when he comes home. He needs the finality of it when he leaves.

            Red’s holding Vision’s hips as he follows him, sleepy. It’s not like he got much rest last night.

            “You’re going to regret the last fifteen minutes when you have to be in America in half an hour.”

            “No,” Vision says. “I don’t think I will.”

            He stops, then turns around to wrap an arm around Red. Red hates it when he leaves. Vision hates it when he has to go. But there’s a universe in flux, and Infinity Stones crashing through narratives, and he has a responsibility and whatever they have to tell themselves when they’re both unhappy with the situation.

            Hugging Vision’s waist, Red says, “You’ll call me? Tonight?”

            “You know that I will.”

            “And I’ll see you soon.”

            “You know that you will.”

            “And you’ll think of me when you’re alone.”

            “You know that I’ll do that, as well as when I’m not alone.”

            “Good. Now come here.” Red reached up for his face, standing on tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. “Go. Save the world. Be my perfect Vision.”

            That gets him a frown, same as always. “I am not—“

            Red says the same thing he always does. “You are perfect to me, in all your imperfections.” He opens the door. “Go on. Before I decide to keep you.”

            Vision steps past him, and Red slaps him on the ass. He has to fight down a grin when Vision turns back to him with an unimpressed look. “I think the testosterone has made you slightly more forward.”

            “Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”

            Vision gives him a little sideways smile, and walks down the stairs. “Be good.”

            “Be realistic,” Red retorts, and shuts the door on him.

            He’s almost to the bedroom when he realizes he forgot to tell Vision that he loves him. For a moment, he thinks about going to get the button to tell him that— _I love you, I love you so much that it’s ridiculous and I don’t even care_ —but it’s a fleeting notion. There are some things he knows with certainty.

            He and Vision belong to each other. They know how much they love one another. Words do not have to be spoken to make it thus.

            Red stretches, yawning. He’s going to sleep for hours. The hormones give him a lot of energy, but a night with Vision—a night like _that_ —leaves him weak kneed and drained.

            There’s a knock on the door.

            Red turns around with a little laugh. Vision obviously felt bad about it too. Sometimes, yes, words need to be said.

            “Okay, my darling,” he calls out, jogging back to the door. “I love—“

            He opens the door.

            It’s not Vision.

            It’s Stark.

            Red’s staring at him, and Stark is gazing back. He looks a little surprised, but Red is suddenly terrified. His hands go red, and he prepares himself to destroy it all.

            He stops.

            The anger leaves him. The fear remains, but he pulls his power back in.       

            “Please,” he says, and Stark tilts his head.      

            It is a plea for his safety. For his life. This is his life, and maybe it’s not important. Maybe it doesn’t matter to anyone other than him that he’ll go to Dagur’s tonight and play cards, or that he’ll help Bjarni dye his hair later this week. Maybe the world doesn’t hold in the balance because he makes minimum wage serving pickled shark to tourists so that he doesn't feel completely useless.

            It doesn’t matter to anyone except him, and Vision, that he is in love for the first time in his life. That he’s found the only person who matches him, who complements him, who he could complement. It only matters to them that they are soulmates in a world where no such thing should exist, but they do exist, and they are meant to be together.

            It doesn’t matter to anyone but him that he thinks of his brother without weeping. He thinks of him and remembers the good stories. He thinks of his mother and father, and he’s not angry. He remembers without having it always hurt.

            It doesn’t matter to anyone but him that he has a life. To him, though, it is more miraculous than anything else. He cannot bear to lose it.

            Red has no idea how to tell Stark that, how to make him of all people understand.

            All he can do is repeat, “Please.”

            Stark looks at him a long moment. Red does nothing else, says nothing else. He’s too frightened to even look into Stark, to see what he wants, to see what’s about to happen.

            This is his life. All he wants is to live it.

            He flinches when Stark reaches out. The man puts a hand to the back of his head. Red holds very still as he steps closer.

            Stark bends down, and kisses his forehead.

            Red shuts his eyes, and listens to Stark’s mind. His breath catches in his throat.

            The hand slips away from him, and Stark turns and walks away, without ever saying a word.

            For almost thirty seconds, Red can do nothing but stand there and tremble. Eventually, his legs give way, and he finds himself sliding down to the floor. He sucks in a breath, crushed beneath the wave of relief.

            He didn’t need to tell Stark. He hadn’t needed to use his powers. When he looked inside, he realized that Stark understand it _all_.

            And Red is unsure if anything stranger has ever happened to him.


	18. Never an Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, folks--show's over.  
> This was the first time after a lifetime of writing that I finally found the guts to post a story for other people to read, and the enthusiasm that some of you have shown for Red has been amazing. So I want to thank bingbangzoom, who was the first person to comment, and who quickly punctured the creeping terror I had that no one would even read this, let alone enjoy it. Also, to jason_todds, LiteraryHedonism, and The_dark_lord, thank you so much for your comments and your kindness. All of you are stars.  
> Look at this amazing artwork that jason_todds did of Red. LOOK AT IT.  
> [x](http://niqhtwings.tumblr.com/post/146412289156/art-of-red-from-this-fic-which-ruined-me)  
> And another one that's so beautiful I don't even know what to do about it and is now my desktop background:  
> [x](http://fuckignart.tumblr.com/post/146452036876/more-art-for-this-fic-but-traditional-and-messy)  
> Last but not least, I'm now on Tumblr, and I'd love it if you come said hi: [e-sebastian.tumblr.com](e-sebastian.tumblr.com)  
> And now, here we are. The end of the story.  
> Of course, nothing ever really ends.

Red wakes.

            He yawns, and rolls on his back, shoving his hair out of his face.

            Tuesday? Is it Tuesday?

            He hopes it’s Tuesday. If it is, Vision will be here this afternoon.

            He’s thrown the covers off in the night. It’s summer, and it’s warm.

            “Up,” Red tells himself. “Come on. Get up.”

            He needs a moment, but he uses his powers to lift himself out of bed and onto his feet. If Vision saw that, he would laugh, but Red is not the best at mornings. He stretches, tilting his head to look out the window. He can’t see above the mountains from this angle, but the muted light suggests that it’s cloudy.

            Awesome. Another humid day with cloud cover. Goddamn volcano.

            Red swipes his phone off the night table, wiping his eyes to check the date. Yes, it’s Tuesday. Good. Vision will be here in—eight hours?

            He needs to clean the house. He keeps it in fairly good shape, but he doesn’t get every corner, and Vision doesn’t understand why. The last time he was here, they argued about the trip Red is going to take next week to Reykjavik with Denise, an English expat who works across the street from Red and who’s one of his new friends. Vision worries for him still. Red has to remind him sometimes that a thing isn’t beautiful because it’s caged.

            Vision wasn’t happy when he left last time. So Red decides to clean every corner, to see him smile.

            Strange things make that man happy, but Red loves him more than life, so he does what he has to.

            Something nags at him about the date. Red looks at it, trying to figure out if it’s a birthday, a holiday, what it could possibly be.

            Then he remembers.

            It’s been one year since he ran away.

            He raises his brows.

            Then he puts his phone down and forgets. The past is the past. He wants to live now.

 

He’s been running for a few weeks now. The testosterone gives him more energy than he can handle sometimes, and he finds that it helps to run the excess off.

            So he double knots his battered Adidas, and heads south into the mountains.

            He’s managed to pick up his time. He knows this. He’s getting faster all the time.

            He and Vision went running together last month, and the race they had was a slaughter. Red wouldn’t give up, at least until he collapsed in a pile of sweat and trembling limbs. Vision leaned over him and asked, “Did you forget that I’m synthetic?”

            Red had just burbled at him, limbs splayed.

            Red moves through the mountains, letting his mind wander.

            Dagur is going to ask Bjarni to marry him. Red finds that kind of funny, but it makes him happy too. Dagur is always calling Bjarni his housewife, and Bjarni says he hates it, acts like he hates it, but Red can tell he loves it.

            Red wonders if he’ll ever marry Vision. He doesn’t know if that’s a thing that Vision cares about. Red isn’t sure that he really cares about it, nor does he think they need it. He knows who he wants, who he fits with. He doesn’t intend to be with anyone else, and he doesn’t need government or God to sanctify that for him.

            He jogs up the hill, and down over the other side, picking up speed.

            The world is a dangerous place. Bad things have happened. More people have died. Many, many more people have died. There are times when he feels bad for not doing more, or _anything_. But he remembers what happened whenever he tried to help, and he thinks it might be for the best if he stays where he is.

            Steve would tell him something about peace coming at a cost, but Strucker told him that too. The idea of collateral damage makes Red want to be ill. He knows that it’s something that Vision can live with, because it’s logical.

            Stark is the only other one who can’t bear the idea of one more person lost because of the bigger picture. The irony of the situation is not lost on Red.

            So he stays in this beautiful, austere land, with the kind people and the food that alternates between delicious and stomach churning, and he works his nothing job and reads his books and makes dinner for his friends. His man comes to be with him as often as he can as the world continues to spin around them.

            Maybe one day Red will have to leave. Maybe he’ll have to rejoin the fight.

            For now, though—this is the best he’s ever had.

            The waterfall has stopped in mid-air.

            Red stops, startled. But it’s an illusion. The water is falling. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?

            He looks back. Where is he? Has he gone this far before? He must have.

            His mind wandered. His mind wandered, and now he’s gone far from home.

            He sighs. He thinks about turning back, but he’s not tired. The truth is, he’s barely even sweating. Red gives his limbs a shake, checking to make sure he’s not fooling himself. Nope. He feels just fine.

            A little voice asks how far he thinks he can go. Red rolls his eyes. He shouldn’t be stupid. He needs to get home, and clean the house.

            _Are you_ that _much of a housewife_?

            He grits his teeth. He keeps running south.

            And after a moment, he realizes something.

            He can run faster.

            So he does.

            He can faster than _that_.

            So he does that too.

            Red goes faster and faster, until things begin to blur. His pulse is steady, and his path is clear. Nothing but rocks and moss and open ground.

            _Can—can I--?_

There’s only one way to find out.

            He pushes himself as hard as he can. Faintly, he hears the sound of broken springs, and he runs so fast that time seems to slow around him.

           

Red runs twenty kilometres from home like that, until he comes to a ravine. Skidding to a stop, he stands there, wide eyed, hair wild around his face. He turns in a shocked circle, no idea where he is.

            But knowing what he’s become.

            Red laughs. It jumps out of him in little skips and starts. He claps his hands a few times, unable to keep the grin off his face.

            He turns to the mountains and screams, “My brother!” Red drops his head to laugh some more, and howls at the mountains, “My brother—I AM ME!”

            It echoes back to him, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

He ends up limping the last few kilometres home. He’s not used to running like his brother could. He managed to run right through the sole of his left shoe, and took a tumble.

            Not that Red minds. He’s buzzing with energy, unable to keep his limbs from threading and crackling.

            He reaches the lake in his bare feet, the destroyed shoes in his hands. It might be silly, but Red thinks he might keep them. A souvenir.

            Red realizes that he doesn’t feel alone. Not in any way, shape, or form. He can’t see another living soul right now, but he knows that there are people in the world who care about him. There’s at least one person who loves him. He’s not afraid. He’s not lonely.

            When he gets to the house, he tosses the shoes on the steps, and turns to take a look at the lake. Even in the summer, the water is freezing. But the clouds have broken, just a little, and the sun comes down on the surface of the water, turning it to sparkles.

            _Fuck it._

            Red pushes off his shorts, and limps down to the water’s edge. Putting in a toe, he hisses. Like ice. _Iceland, genius_ , he reminds himself.

            “Yes, yes,” he mutters.

            Red takes a deep breath. Then he walks into the lake, all the way up to his knees.

            Waving his hands, he tries not to yelp, and instead he starts laughing again. “This is a terrible idea!” he says to no one. “Why did I do this?” He wades in deeper, keeping his arms above the water. “Oh my God. Oh my God, why did I do this?”

            His hands are starting to go red and crackle from the shock of it. Red’s almost up to his armpits in the cold.

            Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, then plunges under the surface.

            It’s like all the slaps in the face, except against every inch of his body. Red forces himself to stay under, opening his eyes.

            The water is red with him, bubbling and churning from his powers seeping out. Red lets it happen. He doesn’t know why he’s walked into the water, except for the mere fact that he can.

            He reaches down to take a pebble off the bottom, and as he does, feels the tremor in the earth. More than that, he feels the current, ringing inside himself. Red smiles, and comes back up to the surface.

            He gasps for air. “Mother Mary,” he cries out. “Oh—oh, you son of a whore.” He flails his limbs a bit, getting his feet onto the ground. Once he’s on solid footing, he turns to look back at the shore.

            Vision stands there, gazing out at him with a curious smile on his face. Red pushes his hair back with one hand, and waves with the other. Vision waves to him, breaking into a grin. It is quite a thing, to see a grin on the face of a man who used to be all uncertain, hesitant smiles. “What on earth are you doing?”

            Red says honestly, “I have no idea.” He looks around the lake. Except for him, it is completely still, shining in the light. “But I think I’m going to do it for awhile longer.”

            He sees Vision sit down. His beloved wraps his arms around his knees, watching him play.

            Red falls onto his back, and floats for a few minutes.

            Sometimes, freedom is doing a thing, just because you can.

            Not for too long, though. That would be foolish.

            So Red gets back on his feet, and heads towards home.

 

 


End file.
